


The King of the Jocks: The King of the Misfits

by Lucidnancyboy



Series: Misfits [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Abusive Parents, Alexander Pierce is a jerk, Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Anxiety, Art, Art Accompanies Each Chapter, Artist Steve Rogers, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Bisexual Tony Stark, Bottom Bucky Barnes, Brock Rumlow is a jerk, Bucky Barnes Feels, Bucky is a first time sub, Bullying, But I am happy to answer any questions you might have, Cheating (sort of) with Dubious Consent, Clint Barton Feels, Clint Barton Is a Good Bro, Comedy/Romance/Drama/Thriller/Mystery/Psychological Drama, Coming Out, Depression, F/M, Falling In Love, First Time, Fluff and Angst, Homophobia, Homophobic Language, Humor, I believe in hopeful/happy endings, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con (not detailed but emotionally intense), Internalized Homophobia, Jock Steve Rogers, Light BDSM, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Mania, Music, Music Playlists, Panic Attacks, Poetry, Pop Culture, Protective Steve Rogers, Punk Bucky Barnes, Punk Clint Barton, Questioning Sexuality, Sam Wilson Is a Good Bro, Sassy Bucky Barnes, Sexual Content, Sexual Humor, Sexual Tension, Sexual Violence/Manipulation, Sexy Dancing, Some tags would be too much of a spoiler to include, Specific/Detailed underage drug use, Steve Rogers Feels, Stucky - Freeform, Suicidal Thoughts, Swearing, Switch Bucky (sort of), Teen Bucky Barnes, Teen Steve Rogers, Tony Stark Does What He Wants, Tony Stark Is a Good Bro, Top Steve Rogers, Underage Drinking, Underage Sex, Violence, Violent Thoughts, clueless boys figuring out subspace, specific sexual content but not explicit, steve is a first time dom, this story is an emotional rollercoaster
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-11
Updated: 2018-07-17
Packaged: 2018-08-21 18:53:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 25
Words: 410,779
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8256691
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lucidnancyboy/pseuds/Lucidnancyboy
Summary: Steve and Bucky came from two completely different worlds. Whether you’d define them as The Haves and The Have-nots, or The Jocks and The Weirdos, it was never a pretty thing when the two sides mixed. Steve Rogers was The King of the Jocks: superstar athlete, insanely rich, wildly popular, and friends with every asshole that Bucky despised. On the other side of Eaton Academy’s social hierarchy, you had The King of the Misfits, Bucky Barnes. Firmly middle class, out, proud, and wickedly funny, Bucky didn't give a fuck what the spawn of Manhattan’s elite thought about him. He rocked My Little Pony t-shirts and cheap pink sunglasses with a big grin and an even bigger middle finger in the air.Smash Steve and Bucky’s worlds together and what do you get? Blurred lines, the realization that nothing is ever simple, and a big, beautiful mess that takes them to places neither of them ever would’ve expected. Equal parts comedy, fluff, romance, psychological drama and thriller: strap in and enjoy the ride.





	1. The Rooftop Kingdom

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [The Deep Blue Pool](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4560048) by [Buddalotus20](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Buddalotus20/pseuds/Buddalotus20). 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Greetings! I'd like to thank my amazing beta  
> [Lorien](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Lorien/pseuds/Lorien)  
> who has decided to stick with me after our collaboration 'Red Vines'. I am outrageously thankful for her patience, insight, and magnificent nitpicking skills. You should check out her amazing artwork!  
> [drjezdzany](http://drjezdzany.tumblr.com/)
> 
> I hope you enjoy this crazy ride :)

 

 

 

 

 

“You can't be serious, Sam.”

“Steve, it's not like we have a lot of options here, and besides he's supposed to be really good.”

“Says who?” Steve looked over his shoulder at the rest of the swim team spiraling towards them, like vultures honing in on a carcass.

They had twenty minutes to kill before Coach Fury showed up to get practice started, and Sam didn’t feel like dealing with this problem right now, especially with an audience. But Steve was being a total weirdo about replacing Devin, and they were supposed to have this shit settled _before_ Fury walked in the door.

Sam shook his head, snapping, “You know damn well ‘says who?’ You’re just stalling.”

He didn’t get why this was so hard. It was simple math; the team was down a member, and they needed to recruit someone new. Steve was normally a great Team Captain, sure of himself and a good leader, but he’d been acting weird ever since Fury had talked to the two of them about this idea yesterday. Frankly, it was pissing Sam off. He started pacing back and forth in front of the guys who were gathering next to the pool, because ain’t nobody got time for this.

“Delaying the inevitable!” Tony shouted from the top row of the bleachers.

Sam rolled his eyes and put his hands on his hips, because Tony Stark was another headache that he didn’t need right now. Tony took a swig from his ‘water bottle’, which was most likely filled with very expensive vodka, or very expensive whiskey, or something equally _very expensive_ and definitely _not water_.

“Why are you part of this conversation? You aren't even on the fuckin’ team!” Brock shouted. He’d circled in and landed right behind Steve, all sharp beak and hooked talons.

“I’m the Manager, Al Capone, so I'm here, _managing_ things.” Tony very maturely stuck out his tongue, flipping Brock off before taking another long swig of whatever the hell he was drinking.

Brock put a hand on Steve’s shoulder and yelled, “Jesus christ! We don’t even _have_ a Manager! Who lets this drunk snob in here every practice, anyway?” His rough voice echoed across the tile and steel of the giant room, mixing with the chorus of chuckles from the rest of the team. “Since you’re richer than God, that means you get to do whatever the hell you want?” Clapping Steve on the back, who looked like he wasn’t paying attention in the slightest, Brock chuckled, “Must be nice, huh, Stark?”

“The best, actually,” Tony yelled back, crossing one bright red, rose patterned seven-hundred-dollar Gucci sneaker across the knee of his black and red striped Prada pants. Sam didn't understand the truly obnoxious combination of seventies London Dandy with the most ridiculous creations New York Fashion week had to offer, but that was Tony. Whenever they went out to the movies or something, Sam always felt underdressed in his polo shirts and jeans, but whatever, man. Not everyone wants to wear sneakers with gaudy, red roses on them.

Tony dramatically mock-saluted Brock, then put his hands over his heart. “Thank you for inquiring about my life of privilege, Mr. Rumlow. Even though we all know that your family is rich as God too...or maybe it’s the devil in your case. But really, Brock, who knew that you cared so deeply about me? I’m touched actually. Is this a moment? Are we having a moment?”

“Yeah, buddy. You know I love ya.” Brock had obviously gotten bored, because he stepped in front of Sam and started in on the Devin thing in his thick New York accent. “Devin fucked us.”

Sam was so done with this. He had a Chemistry test to think about, and this was supposed to be an easy open and shut case. Crossing his arms across his broad chest, he squared his shoulders at Brock and the rest of the guys behind him. “No, Devin’s dad got unexpectedly transferred, and we need to replace him. It’s simple, man. I don’t get why this is such a big deal.”

Brock scoffed, looking toward his cronies, Jack and Frank, to back up his assertion that ‘Devin did indeed fuck us'. They both nodded in agreement, because they _always_ nodded in agreement. Sam looked to Steve for some backup, because that’s what your co-captain is _supposed_ to do, that’s what your best-friend typically would do, but he was staring at the wall. Sam was so done.

“So, hey. Hey, guys, not to interrupt. Sorry, Brock. I mean, I _am_ interrupting, but you know.” Scott had jumped in front of Steve and Sam out of nowhere, like an overexcited chihuahua on speed, which made Brock do that ‘open-mouth-sigh-eye-roll-thing’ he does so well.

Scott was a short guy, but he was all lean muscle and speed. He talked so fast that it was not only hard to keep track of _what_ the hell he was talking _about_ , but  _who_ the hell he was talking _to_ , most of the time. To be honest, Sam kinda loved him for that. The rest of these guys were overly intense, and a little spaz in the mix helped lighten the mood once in awhile. Sam had been thinking about the roster (like he was supposed to be doing), trying to figure out how the hell they were gonna rearrange things without Devin, and he kept landing on Scott as part of the solution. Even though he was smaller, Scott was a kickass swimmer. Usually Scott destroyed everyone in the Individual Medley and the Free Relays, so if Steve would get his head out of his ass, and get on board with Fury’s plan, maybe Sam could wrap this shit up today and not fail Chemistry in _September_.

“So, tell me about this dude,” Scott continued. He snapped his spazzy head towards the bleachers and gave Tony a little wave. “Oh, hey. Hi, Tony! Sorry to interrupt, man.”

“Interrupt what? His drinking!” Frank laughed.

Sam did a literal facepalm, as Scott snapped his head right back. “So, Steve. Is he _actually_ good? Did I miss that part somewhere? I _am_ kinda ADD, so it’s possible. Anyway, who says he’s good?”

“His fuckin’ dad of course,” Brock snarled, shoving into Scott’s shoulder. They were friends and all, but man, Sam _hated_ how Brock pushed people around.

“Yes, his dad,” Sam growled back with obvious frustration growing in his tone, because _he was getting so damn frustrated_! He looked at Steve...and guess what?...he was staring at a different part of the wall. Yeah, Sam was on his own. Staring Brock right in the eye, he said, “But more importantly, Coach Fury.”

“Who obviously heard it from his _fuckin’ dad_.” Brock pushed into Scott again, unnecessarily emphasizing his point.

“No, Brock.” God, this was like talking to a ten-year-old. “ _Actually_ , Fury went to watch his practice in Brooklyn yesterday; thank you very much.”

Jack Rollins snickered from behind Brock’s shoulder, mumbling, “Because his dad fuckin’ told him to.”

That was it. Sam could not deal with this shit on his own. Praying that the third time was gonna be the charm, he looked at Steve again, and yep, there he was; _looking_ like a Captain was supposed to with his broad shoulders, swim trunks, and perfect posture, but he was still standing there lookin' all stressed, flexing his unnaturally square jaw (like he was trying to snap it in half from the pressure), and staring at the god-forsaken wall! Why the hell wasn’t Steve the one answering all these damn questions in the first place? The _Captain_ of the team should be handling this kind of bullshit! _Technically_ they were co-captains, but Steve usually took the lead on this kind of thing, and Sam had always been more than happy to follow. But not this time. Nope. This time Steve had hung him out to dry, and Sam was pissed at himself for bringing this up in front of everyone in the first place!

“So, Sam, is this up to the team, or did Fury just tell you to ask him?”

Scanning the motley crew of guys for the source of that high pitched voice, Sam landed on Peter Parker, who had stepped out from behind a couple of the bigger guys, and was running his hands through his short brown hair. As the youngest kid on the team, Parker was always looking for ways to fit in. He usually accomplished this task by talking _way_ too much to everyone. Once, he’d told Sam a never-ending story about some crazy Science project about bugs, or spiders, or some creepy insect shit, after Sam had simply asked the kid what class he had fifth hour. Sam blew out a big breath, because he knew damn well that Peter would unintentionally spread this mess around to everyone at Eaton by the end of first hour.

Ezra stretched his pale, lean body back against the second row of bleachers, his arms making a beautiful line along the wood, before he joined the discussion with his drawn-out, nasally voice. “Peter, I don’t think we have a vast assortment of options here. Plus, _gentlemen_ , I personally think that he could add some much needed spice to the pent-up atmosphere around here.”  

Sam was pretty sure that Ezra lived for this kind of gossip, and totally used his inside information to get laid. The gossip girls at Eaton were killing two birds with one stone hooking up with a guy like Ezra: they could run their hands through his long, shiny, white boy hair, _while_ getting the latest juicy scoop. He was a good person to hang out with if you wanted get busy, because the gossip loving ladies always hung out in packs, but Sam knew well enough to keep his own mouth shut if he didn't want his business spread all over the damn place. Ezra smiled his Cheshire Cat grin and drawled, “ _Y_ _ou_ people are all  _so boring_.”

Between Steve being completely useless and inexplicably attracted to the brick wall, Brock being a total dick, Tony being drunk, and the rest of the team generally not helping at all, Sam was at his wit’s end. If Fury walked in on this mess, he was gonna rain down apocalyptic hellfire on every single one of them. Sam needed to wrap this shit up quick.

“You know what, everybody, you all need to shut the hell up! This is simple. Fury said he was the best swimmer at the Brooklyn meet, that he blew everyone away by a mile, and that he might even be able to keep up with Cap.” Sam put his hand on Steve’s shoulder, clapping down slightly too hard, hoping that it might shake him back to reality.

Once Sam had dramatically revealed that fun little fact, a chorus of snarky “ahhhs” and “ooooos” echoed around the pool deck. Every single eye zeroed in on Steve...waiting.

Steve’s Adam’s Apple bobbed as he swallowed, then swallowed again. When he noticed Sam looking, Steve immediately shifted his eyes towards Fury’s office. Yeah, right. No, Steve, Coach Fury wasn't gonna magically saunter through the door at this precise moment to save you from whatever fucking problem you’re having with this situation! Nice try.

Sam was a great swimmer, but Steve...well, he was superhero caliber. It was like the gods themselves had perfectly designed his upper body to slice through the water like Poseidon. It sounded stupid and cliche, but it was true! He was all muscle, power, and grace, and he excelled at every stroke. Everyone was a little jealous of Steve, to be honest, a  _lot_ jealous. So, to see Steve looking nervous about bringing in some new competition? Well, his freak out made absolutely no sense. True, Steve wasn’t friends with this dude, but _none_ of them were! Sam was completely baffled by Steve acting like a shy fool about this entire situation. He’d have to do some digging later, because that’s what best friends do, but for now, Sam had to get these assholes under control. “Fury said his community team sucks, and he’s wasting his talent there. He also said, quite firmly, that we _really_ need him on the team.”

Jack slid up next to Brock, and side by side they looked like two lean jackals ready to devour a poor, helpless antelope. True, Rollins was calmer, and more reasonable than Brock, but they were cut from the same cloth: rich, entitled, bored, and, when they got in the mood, downright mean. “So,” Jack questioned, shifting his eyes to Steve, “if he’s so great, why doesn't he swim for us already?”

“Because he's a fuckin’ twink,” Brock laughed. He pushed his muscular shoulder up against Jack and slapped his back, like he’d just made the funniest gay joke in the History of Homophobic Comedy.

“Maybe it’s because assholes like you, say shit like that,” Steve snapped, shaking his head.

“Oh, look at that, the strong, silent one finally speaks.” Sam‘s voice was dripping with sarcasm and he rolled his eyes practically into the back of his head, because, really? Now he was gonna jump in? “Thanks for all the backup, Steve. You’re the best, man.”

The chihuahua piped up again, hopping in front of Steve this time. “No, really guys, what's the actual deal? I’m so confused. I mean, our team’s the best. _You_ are the best, Steve! You too!” Scott swiveled around until he was eye to chin with the much taller Sam, then continued rambling with innocence and puppy dog confusion. “You’re great too, Sam! So, seriously why? Why wouldn’t he wanna swim for Eaton in the first place?”

“Seriously,” Steve snarled, with that bitchy face he got whenever he knew he was right, and he was one-hundred percent done with everyone’s shit. Yeah, Sam understood that look; if he looked in a mirror right now, he was positive he'd see the same expression plastered all over his own handsome mug. When Steve continued, he gave the rest of the team a good once-over with the bitch face. “I think the _actual_ reason he doesn’t want to swim for Eaton, is because he _actually_ thinks that we’re all assholes.”  

“What? He thinks that his ‘Principal’s Son Status’, and ridiculous clothes, makes him better than us?" Frank, the quiet asshole of the group, decided to interject his opinion. Great.

He was fiddling with his iphone, and didn’t even make the effort to look up from whatever game he was playing when everyone turned to stare at him. Frank kept his jet black hair in a crew cut, and wore a constant expression of imminent doom on his face, that made you wonder what was going on inside of that brain of his. On top of that, his temper meant that most people steered clear of him; except for Brock and Jack. They thought Frank was dangerous, which meant that they thought he was cool, plus, their families ran in the same circles. The ring leader was most definitely Brock; a coiled bundle of sinew and muscle, dark black eyes, and far too much five o’clock shadow for anyone in High School. Brock was the attitude, Jack was the brains, and Frank was the muscle. When the three of them got in the mood, they got their kicks being pricks to everyone around them, including their ‘friends’. Sam was one of those friends, although he was questioning the logic of that decision more and more every damn day.

Frank was still staring at his phone, when he muttered, “That guy makes me mad just looking at him. Always has, always will.”

“Everyone makes you mad, Castle,” Jack laughed. “But yeah, I know what you’re talking about. The guy doesn’t know how to take a joke, and have you seen the way he’s been looking at us this year? I don’t like it. He's a total Salvation Army, charity case snob!”

“I think he's actually really cool.” Scott cluelessly turned to Frank, like he wasn’t right in the middle of an epic battle of wills.

“Of course you do, pipsqueak,” Tony drunkenly shouted.

Stark had leapt to his feet, and was standing precariously on the top bleacher, dramatically gesturing with his arms. He was gonna fall. He was gonna fall, and Sam was gonna have to carry his drunk ass out to Steve’s truck, so he could sleep it off. That’s what happened last Thursday after the meet, and Steve hadn’t appreciated the plastic bag of puke he’d left behind in the backseat. Sam had told Steve to be grateful that at least the dipshit had tossed his cookies into a fucking bag!

Tony started walking like he was trying to pass a sobriety test, hollering, “Anyone with a cleverly ironic t-shirt instantly moves up ten spots on your Rolling Stone ‘What’s Hot’ list, Scott. Drumroll please...this year’s top spot goes to a punk rock hipster in a Wham shirt.”

“Pretty sure he wasn’t wearing that ironically,” Ezra laughed.

“I mean, seriously, guys. Did you see the Bob Ross shirt that he was wearing the other day!? It was so awesome! It had the afro, and the seventies’ vibe, and the happy little trees!” Scott was gesturing wildly at his bare chest, pointing out the locations of said ‘afro’, ‘seventies’ vibe’, and apparently the ‘happy little trees’.

Was Fury here yet? Sam stared at his empty office and died a little bit inside.

“Yeah, man,” Peter said, his voice cracking. “I saw that shirt and it was really cool!”

“People. People. You are so missing the point here.” Sam rubbed his forehead, and realized that these guys had magically transformed him into the exasperated father of a gang of unruly, spoiled children.

“Redirect us then, Mace Windu!” Tony slurred, making sweeping lightsaber motions and horrible sound effects.

“Did you just call me Mace Windu, because I’m black?”

“Absolutely not, Jules. I called you that, because you are a _true_ Jedi Master; leader of the people with your purple sword of light, and because you truly _are_ your brother’s keeper and the finder of the lost children. And I know you will strike down upon thee with great vengeance and furious anger, those who would attempt to poison and destroy my brothers.” Tony lunged dramatically, swinging his ‘water bottle’ lightsaber towards the ceiling with a flourish.

Sam was gonna give in. He was gonna quit the team, and let Steve handle this shit all on his own...he sighed, because he’d never do that. Steve might be staring at the clock, with the bitch face still stuck in position, but Sam had always stood by his side.

“He’s drunk,” Steve said, with the most monotone voice ever invoked in the history of monotone voices.

“Damn right, he’s drunk.” Leaning his head back, Sam prayed that the gates to Heaven would magically open up and accept him into paradise. “But he thinks he’s a genius, quoting Sam Jackson at me.”

“Well, technically I _am_ a genius, and I get the feeling that Sam...either Jackson or Wilson...has had it with these motherfucking snakes on this motherfucking plane!”

“Tony, shut the fuck up,” Sam said sternly, but it was getting harder to hide the smile that was threatening to turn up the corners of his mouth. Tony was a nuisance, but _damn_ he was funny. That’s why Sam loved him, despite his many, many, many, _many_ issues. Did he mention that Tony had issues? Oh, he did? Good.

Now, onto Steve.

“Steve, just to let you know, you’re being a shit Captain right now; standing there all quiet and pissed, staring at that mother fucking wall. No help at all.” Sam glared at Steve, and Steve glared right back.

“I told you he was sick of the mother fucking snakes on the wall!”

“Tony, shut the fuck up!” Steve didn’t even look away from Sam’s eyes when he'd yelled at Tony. At least they were on the same page about the fact that Drunk Tony wasn’t cute right now. Well, maybe a little cute, but he still needed to shut the fuck up!

So, here they were, locked in an epic stare down. This was a bullshit way to start the week. Sam honestly had _no idea_ what the hell was going on with Steve. Normally, he wouldn’t be standing there doing virtually nothing about something as serious as replacing a valuable member of the swim team. Usually, Steve was a strong leader with a never ending list of opinions...but right now, for whatever reason...he was completely useless. That meant that Sam, surrounded by nine very opinionated, half naked dudes (plus one _very drunk,_ obnoxious dude) was on his own.

“Bottom line...” Sam looked right at Steve, but he was definitely talking to every single guy in the room. “I've heard he's good. Natasha says he's good. Fury says he's....”

“Fine,” Steve interrupted, tightly squeezing his hand over his forehead. “Fine, Sam. You're right. But _I'm_ not asking him.”

“Oh, he does talk? Thought for a minute there, that you’d gone mute.” Sam was officially pissed, and Steve had better be the best wingman the world had ever known at Tony’s party this weekend to make up for it! If it was gonna be this kind of week, Sam needed _something_ to look forward to. He tried to think of a beautiful girl sitting in his lap, as he yelled, “But let me point out one very important fact, Steven Grant Rogers; you're the _mother fucking Captain_!”

“Of the mother fucking plane!!!” Tony hollered, using his best Sam Jackson voice (which was horrible). He’d inexplicably wadded up his outrageously expensive jacket, and was trying to use it as a pillow as he sprawled out on the bleachers. Sam had no idea how he was even breathing, with his head lolling off the edge at such a nauseating angle.

“Ooo fight! Fight! Fight!” Frank yelled, still staring at his screen. In all honesty, he hadn’t looked up once, since this whole argument started.

Steve sighed, and rubbed his hand over his eyes again, completely ignoring Tony and Frank. “I know Sam, but he doesn't like me...at all. He always looks at me weird.”

“See, I told you he looks at us weird!” Brock exclaimed, triumphantly shoving into Sam. God, would this guy get off him!

“Maybe he loooooves you…” Tony started making obnoxious kissing noises on his imaginary ‘water bottle’ lightsaber.   

“Jesus, no, Tony! I'm pretty sure, he actually hates me.” Steve looked so uncomfortable, like he’d rather be anywhere on Earth than stuck in the middle of this bullshit situation. “ _Everyone_ likes Sam. How can you not like Sam? He helps frail little old ladies cross the street, and opens doors for every single human being that even _thinks_ about walking through a door. I just honestly think that it might go better if Sam’s the one to ask him.”

“Afraid of a fuckin’ hipster.” Brock licked his lips and laughed. “God, you’re a pussy too.”

“Shut up, Brock!” Sam and Steve shouted simultaneously, swinging their heads in his direction.

“Sam should totally do it, ‘cause Samuel L. Jackson ain’t afraid of nothin’!” Tony slurred.

“Oh, for god’s sake, everyone just shut the hell up! Especially you, Tony!” Sam pointed a finger in Tony’s general direction but the drunk asshole wasn't even looking at him. “I'm gonna take one for the team... _this_ time.” Sam pushed his finger right into the center of Steve’s ridiculous chest. “But you owe me big...all of you. But especially you, Steve.” He poked him twice, right in the sternum. “Cause man, you just straight up suck right now!”

*****

   

 

And that’s how Sam Wilson ended up talking to Bucky Fucking Barnes on the school roof after practice, while the dude with the crazy hair, and the giant joint dangling from his lips, side-eyed him. How had Steve suckered him into this shit? Oh yeah, giant blue puppy eyes and epic amounts of 'but he hates me' over-exaggeration. Plus lots of whining: pathetic, annoying whining.

Bucky was sitting on the black tar roof, leaning against an old brick chimney next to an inexplicably placed potted plant. The shadow from the chimney was cloaking him from the bright light of the afternoon sun. Crazy Hair was hovering above, perched on top of the chimney with his beat up black combat boots dangling over the edge. Sam couldn’t help but marvel at the giant blond mohawk on this guy. He had so many questions! Who even _had_ a mohawk these days? Definitely nobody in Manhattan! And sweet jesus, wasn't he hot in all that leather? Curiosity got the best of him, and he decided to engage. “It's like ninety-five degrees today, man.”

“Thanks for the weather report,” Crazy Hair said, lazily puffing out a giant cloud of swirling smoke.

“Who waters that plant?” Sam directed that one right at Bucky, who was picking at a long thread that was dangling from the Nirvana patch on his knee.

Bucky quickly twirled his finger around the thread, yanking it off with a sharp snap. “What do you want?” He flung the thread on the ground beside him, and sounded beyond annoyed. “You said it was important. We've let you into our sanctuary...”

“Your Sanctuary?”

“Sanctuary,” Crazy Hair mumbled, while attempting to hold a massive hit in his lungs. The huge cloud of smoke that was escaping from every possible orifice, and the epic coughing fit that followed, signaled a completely failed effort.

“Yes, Sanctuary. And since I’m pretty sure that you’ve never spoken directly to me before today, I'm anxiously waiting to hear, what in the world you could ever want to talk to little ol’ me about.”

Bucky slid his bright pink sunglasses all the way down to the tip of his nose, so that he was looking dramatically over the top and straight into Sam’s big, brown eyes. Suddenly, he felt like a deer in headlights; frozen in the middle of this strangely winding road of Willy Wonka weirdness. Sam was beginning to think that Steve’s leeriness of this kid (if that’s what his problem was) wasn’t totally unfounded. This dude was a little shit and actually kinda scary. Scary with pink sunglasses...which honestly, was quite a feat. And how the hell hadn’t Crazy Hair taken that joint out of his mouth? Even during the wildly intense coughing fit, it had just hung there, like the weirdo had glued it on! That voodoo was seriously creeping Sam out. He was like a punk rock bodyguard from hell, or maybe the leader of a biker gang from a Cheech and Chong movie. Sam didn't know which one was worse.

“Well?” Bucky’s voice broke the ‘deer in headlights’ spell, although admittedly, Sam still felt like he was about to be obliterated by a car and strapped to the roof for filleting. The kid was still staring at him, over those gas station RayBan knock offs, but now he was actually smirking and chuckling cynically, “C’mon, out with it”.

“I'm here representing the swim team.”

Crazy Hair cackled, because apparently Sam was a very funny guy.

He paused, took a deep breath and cursed Steve, then straightened up and kept right on going. “One of our best swimmers moved out of state unexpectedly, and we need to fill his spot. Word is that you’re good, and Coach Fury suggested that we recruit you. So, here I am, recruiting you.” Sam felt pretty damn good about that speech. He nodded his head a little bit, giving himself props; authoritative but cool...Steve had sent the right man.

“No.”

“No?”

“No.”

The bodyguard from hell snorted out the most obnoxious laugh, and the voodoo joint _finally_ fell from his lips. “Fuck, fuck, fuck! You made me burn my pants!” Crazy Hair frantically tried to retrieve the joint from the crotch of his jeans where it had fallen, but it seemed like he only managed to flail around and almost fall off the chimney. “These are my favorite pants, dude! And I don’t see my joint! Oh, that's harsh. Sooooo harsh, man.”

“Why isn't The King of The Jocks here, making this ridiculous request himself?” Bucky tipped his head to the side, flipping his long brown hair over his shoulder, before he leveled Sam with that stare again.

“Very good question, Buck!” Crazy Hair exclaimed, pointing at Bucky like a crooked car salesman, who, Sam was absolutely convinced _was_ Willy Wonka’s evil twin.

“Thank you, Clint!” he answered, pointing back with an even more exaggerated car salesman impression, smiling an exaggerated grin, before swiveling his head back towards Sam.

Oh great, now they were _both_ staring at him. “King of The Jocks, eh? That's cute.” Sam was gonna kill Steve. He was gonna drop him from a _very very very_ high building. “ _Well_ , if I'm being completely honest, I'm starting to understand Steve’s decision to sit this one out.”

Bucky raised his eyebrows.

“Listen, man. Steve thinks you hate him. I don’t know what his deal is. So, he sent me. Although, I'm starting to think that you hate me too, and that Steve totally threw me under the bus here.”

Bucky sighed, slowly pushing the pink sunglasses onto the top of his head, so his long hair was out of his face. He leaned his head back against the bricks, and Sam could see the dramatic line of his jaw. The chiseled edge was catching a piece of sunlight and creating a sharp shadow across his long neck, as Bucky let out a dramatically long breath. Sam watched in amazement, as Bucky’s over the top persona shifted right before his very eyes; like a chameleon changes from pink to green when he walks from a rose to a leaf.

He took another deep breath, before saying, “Your friends are total dicks to me. I don't hate The Golden God, but he certainly doesn't do anything to shut those pricks up. Neither do _you_ for that matter...since we're being honest. So, you tell me; why the hell would I want to join a team full of homophobic, homogenized, spoiled, jock dicks? Hmmm?”

Crazy Hair started doing a drumroll on his lap.

Sam was so over this punk rock clown. “Not helping man,” he said, through gritted teeth.

“Not trying to.”

This was going down the wrong road fast. And sadly, it wasn’t a candy colored road of Everlasting Gobstoppers and Blueberry Bubblegum this time. This was a dark road, where Brock and his cronies (and he guessed, his and Steve’s indifference) lurked in the shadows. Sam knew that he had to salvage this whole situation, because they really did need this kid. Devin had been the second best swimmer on the team, next to Steve, and without him the relays and the four-hundred meter freestyle would be totally screwed. So, the dilemma Sam now faced was, how the hell should he answer that very accurate question? He tried to relax his posture.

“Because, from what I hear you have real talent, and Fury says it's being wasted on that crappy Brooklyn team. And yeah, my friends can be dicks, but they’re a good fucking team. We win. And I'm sure, deep down, that you'd like to win too. I’m sorry that Steve and I let shit go down, really, I am. I didn't know it was that bad. To put it real simple, man, I'm asking nicely...we need you.”

 *****

    

 

Glancing skyward, Bucky took a minute to let that sink in. The clouds were so white and puffy today, separated by wide expanses of brilliant blue. He couldn’t help but compare himself to one of those happy little clouds, and think of the peacefulness that being a tiny little cloud, floating far away from thunderstorms, brought him. Bucky really liked his little puffy cloud with his little group of friends...although, admittedly his cloud was partially made up of secondhand smoke, courtesy of his bestie over there. Joining the school swim team...well, that was like throwing his super cool little puffy cloud directly into the middle of a class-five hurricane.

But the chance to get to know Steve Rogers, to _really_ see what was underneath that ‘All American Superstar Persona’, wow, that was tempting. Because Bucky knew (he was absolutely positive) that there's more to Steve Rogers than meets the eye. One of his epic ninja skills was being really good at reading people; and he suspected that Steve (Mr. Tall, Blond, Popular Adonis) had some juicy secrets buried beneath all that Poster Boy perfection. It was something about the way Bucky caught Steve looking at him sometimes...like he's sad or pissed...or both at the same time. When the assholes called Bucky a fag, or a twink, or his personal favorite...cumdumpster, and Steve was around, he always distracted the idiots and got them to stop, even though he didn't actively stand up to them. And that’s when it happened. As Steve steered Brock and the rest of the pricks away, with stories of football game winners or strategies for beating Riverdale Prep at the next meet, Bucky sometimes caught The King of the Jocks giving him that weird, sad, pissed look.  

Bucky had no clue what it was all about, and it’s been an enigma that's been bugging him since Freshman year. He’d love to get the chance to play Nancy Drew and solve the mystery of Steve Rogers, it was an enticing opportunity...but being face to face with Brock Fucking Rumlow and his evil minions, _plus_ dealing with the rest of those rich clowns every day?...well, that would be throwing his happy, puffy little cloud into The Perfect Storm, and everyone knows what happened to Batman and Marky Mark in that movie. Did Bucky really want to hurl himself right into the middle of that? It would be emotional suicide.

“So, I'm just supposed to ignore over three years of bullying, judgement, and suffering because you suddenly _need_ me? What if all I have is my suffering, my regret? And your claim that you didn’t know? Ah, but I _know_ you did. I know. And as much as your invitation may appeal to me, I must _regretfully_ decline.”

“Ohhh shit, Bucky! You just did Louis!” Clint shouted, jumping up and down. “Oh, my man, you are _sooo_ sexy when you do that sad, sad vampire!” Turning to Sam, Clint wrapped his arms around his stomach and laughed at him. “He totally Armanded you! Look, Bucky, he even has Armand’s shocked, sad face of unexpected rejection! I think he actually might cry. Oh, this is priceless, bro!”

“For real, what in the hell are you even talking about?” Sam said through his clenched jaw. Bucky could tell that he was getting pissed, like _really_ pissed, and something in Bucky was kinda satisfied with that reaction.  

“Interview with a Vampire?” Clint answered, wide eyed, like Sam Wilson was the most clueless human on the planet.

Blank stare.

“Brad Pitt at his sexiest and most gay?” Bucky offered, tipping his head.

Blank stare.

“Terribly miscast Antonio Banderas ruining his eyeliner, because he’s crying like a big gay baby at Louis’ rejection?” Clint, looking exasperated, tried one last time.

Blank stare.

“Good god, dude! Add this critical piece of cinematic history to your ‘must watch’ list immediately! Do not pass go. Do it, and do it now!” Clint snickered, shaking his head enough to make his mohawk sway with the motion. “You _totally_ have the same face as Antonio Banderas right now. When you watch that scene, you’re gonna think Antonio is your twin! I mean, your _white_ , _Italian,_ vampire twin. Priceless.”

Bucky just chuckled and relaxed, sprawling out and smiling at Sam’s bewildered expression. He didn’t normally like to pick on people, but insinuating that Sam Wilson was a gay, rejected, vampire was pretty fucking satisfying. Sam looked furious.

“Okay, man. I get it. Thanks for your time. Don't forget to water your plant,” he snapped, turning on his heel and stomping away. Bucky got the feeling, that Sam wanted to skip the ladder altogether and fly off the edge of the roof to escape their Sanctuary as fast as possible.

As he put his sneaker onto the first rung, he muttered, “I'm gonna fucking kill Steve. Sacrificial lamb...I ain't no lamb and I ain’t no vampire...what the…”

“Hey!” Bucky’s voice echoed across the expanse of the roof, just as Sam’s head was about to disappear beneath the edge. “Tell the King I'll do it.”

“Bucky...hey,” Clint said quietly.

“But I want some guarantees.”

“Buck…” Clint leaned forward over the edge of the chimney, trying desperately to get him to stop, but Bucky wanted to know...

“Okay, what?” Sam paused, but didn’t come back up the ladder. Bucky supposed there was no way in hell he was doing that after they’d turned him into Antonio Banderas. He held his ground, peeking his head up over the brick edge.

“Steve keeps those dicks under control.”

“Okay.”

“And keeps a muzzle on Brock.”

“Difficult, but okay.”

“Buck, you _can't_ be serious….”

Clint had sat back down on the edge of the chimney, and every bit of his usual kinetic energy had dissipated. He was stone cold serious and was staring at Bucky with a look of complete concern and utter bewilderment. Bucky wasn’t surprised.

He was the only one who knew first hand _everything_ thatthose guys had done to Bucky. Christ, usually those pricks got their rocks off dealing it out to him too. Clint had been there Freshmen year, when Frank Castle had decided that slamming into Bucky like a freight train every single goddamn time they passed in the hall, had been his personal mission. He’d helped Bucky cover himself with frozen corn and peas, countless times after Frank’d had a particularly violent day. Bucky knew, without Clint, he never would have made it through that year.

Clint was there Sophomore year, when the quietly dangerous one, Jack, had posted a hastily snapped picture on Facebook. It had been a blurry shot of Bucky kissing TJ Campbell under the bleachers during a pep rally, but it had been clear enough. Jack had tagged half the student body, which had effectively outed TJ. That had quickly snowballed into TJ being grounded for life, forbidden from ever talking to a perverted sinner like Bucky again, and being informed that he was 'not gay' by his parents. Obviously, that kind of drama had resulted in the complete and total destruction of their burgeoning relationship...and their friendship. TJ was the first person that Bucky had ever kissed, and he’d really liked him. Losing out on the possibility of TJ, before it had really even began, was something that Bucky would hate Jack Rollins for forever. And let’s not forget, how thoroughly _humiliating_ the entire situation had been for his dad, the _goddamn school principal_! The fact that Bucky had been caught sticking his tongue down the throat of a notoriously right wing Senator’s son (on school property!), well, that had almost ended his Dad’s career.  

God, Clint’d had so many pieces to pick up that time, and after carefully reassembling him with hours of ‘Call of Duty’, endless sad, eighties ballads played on eleven, and far too many movie marathons to count, Clint had made sure that Bucky had come out the other side stronger than before.

Bucky glanced up at Clint, his head surrounded by those puffy white clouds, and he knew that the reason he’d gotten tougher, stood up for himself more, and had finally decided that he gave zero fucks what those assholes thought of him, was because of his best friend. If Bucky did this, he’d be dragging Clint along for the ride.

He couldn’t help but think about last year, when Brock had really kicked it up a notch. The constant barrage of “twink”,“fag”, and “pussy” that had poured out of that twisted mouth had worn Bucky down, despite his carefully maintained facade. Every single time that Brock had gotten near him it was like ‘Ghost Adventures’, when the hairs stand up on Zac Bagan’s super sexy arms whenever a malevolent spirit pushes its energy into his space. He’d acted aloof, casual, made a joke, but inside he’d become hypersensitive and had picked up on every shift in Brock’s body. To put it simply, it had hurt; and every single time that it had gotten to be too much, Clint had always been there to listen, play Rock Band, and share a delicious gallon of ice cream. God, Bucky loved ice cream, and superman had been Clint’s go-to solution, because, as he loved to say...Bucky was his favorite Gay Rainbow Superhero.

Then, there was Steve. Where to even start with that mystery? Bucky knew that the main reason Clint was looking at him like he’d completely lost his mind, was _Steve Rogers_. There was no hiding anything from the person who’d heard every single drunk confession about Bucky’s fascination with a certain blond haired, blue eyed jock. Bucky had a thing for him. Fine, he’ll admit it. He had for a long time. He’ll admit that too. And no amount of superman ice cream was gonna cure that. And Sam was right, Bucky _was_ sick of losing. And not only that, deep down he really did want to stop hiding. It was Senior year, time to go all out, reach for the stars, whatever... so he might as well take advantage of Sam’s obvious desperation.

Even though Clint was gonna be pissed, and he was staring at Bucky like he was the stupidest idiot ever, Bucky just did it. He yelled, “And I swim every event I'm best at. No seniority bullshit. If I'm the best, I get the spot.”

“That might be a tough one,” Sam yelled back. “Fury’s gotta make that call.”

“No exceptions. If I'm the best, I get the spot.”

“Fine,” Sam groaned, before he started to take another step down the ladder.

But there was one last thing that Bucky wanted, and he was feeling saucy enough to ask for it, so before Sam’s foot could reach the next rung, he called it out.

“And…”

“Oh, there's more?” Sam interrupted.

Bucky was surprised he'd even stopped. If he was Sam he would have told himself to go screw himself two requests ago.

“Fuck yeah, there's more!” Clint sneered, finally pulling his eyes away from Bucky.

The expression on Clint’s face told Bucky that he had his back; he’d followed him into plenty of fucked up situations, and if Bucky was dumb enough to do this (which he was), he knew that Clint would be there if things went sideways. Probably, with more superman ice cream.

Since they were both charging into a thunderstorm, it came as no surprise when Clint chose this very sentimental moment to make a joke. “Bucky also demands a personal masseuse...a really good looking one...to loosen him up real nice, while you and Steve gingerly feed him grapes after every single practice.”

“Man, shut the fuck up!”

Clint laughed, and lit up another joint. Bucky didn’t know what he’d do without him, and he gave him a big smile as Clint leaned back on his chimney with satisfaction.

While Bucky was chuckling, because really, Steve feeding him grapes would be _awesome_ , he got ready to make his final demand. If he was gonna risk his happy little cloud, he might as well go for the fucking gold. “I want him to ask me himself.”

Sam actually took a step back up the iron ladder after that one. “Steve?”

“No, Kanye West,” Bucky yelled, before throwing Sam his most smartass expression. “Yes, Steve!”

Bucky took the time to stand up to his full six feet, and to push the pink sunglasses back over his eyes, before taking a few steps closer to the ladder. “If Steve Rogers, The King of The Jocks, needs me on his _precious_ team so bad, then he can drag his perfect little ass up on this roof, and ask me himself.”

*****

  

 

And that’s how Steve Rogers ended up talking to Bucky Fucking Barnes on the school roof after practice, while the dude with the crazy hair and the giant joint dangling from his lips, side-eyed him. He felt like a goddamned idiot.

Steve immediately noticed a weirdly placed potted plant next to Bucky, who was aggressively man-spreading in some old, faded green, plastic lawn chair. His heavy black combat boots had pink laces, and were propped up on several crumbling concrete blocks. He had no idea why this odd juxtaposition made him so nervous, or why it made him say something as stupid as... “Nice plant.”

Clint Barton was laying on his back, with one of his legs dangling precariously over the edge of the chimney, and was throwing a baseball up and down, up and down, then catching it without looking. If that wasn’t creepy enough, instead of watching the ball like a normal human being, Clint was staring at Steve as he tossed it up and down, up and down. It made Steve feel exposed, like Clint was a mohawked demon staring directly into his soul. He was gonna have a panic attack. Shit.

“You like my plant?” Bucky gestured at the oddly lush, little green plant in the golden yellow pot, like it was his most prized pet.

“I mean plants are nice.” Oh my god. Plants are nice? Why did this guy make him so nervous? Every damn time, he freaked Steve out. The way that Bucky looked at Steve’s friends when they were saying rude things or acting like jerks...it was like he was so superior to them all...and Steve was starting to think that maybe he was.

Because, in all honesty, sitting there on his plastic throne, with the punk rock court jester by his side and flanked by his magical plant, Bucky Barnes looked like a King. The King of _something_...Steve looked closely at the long tendrils of wavy brown hair falling into his face, and wasn’t quite sure. The kaleidoscope of colors that Bucky was wearing should have clashed, but they somehow made perfect sense as a whole. He peered into Bucky’s eyes and saw something swirling in them, something different, like an unexplored galaxy. He was patches, and pins, color, and questions. He was The King of The Misfits.

“Plants are good for the soul,” Bucky decreed.

Now all that Steve could see, was Bucky Fucking Barnes with a giant, gold crown jauntily perched on top of his head, pressing down the rich brown waves of messy, mopped hair and glistening regally in the late afternoon sun. There were stunning prisms of light bouncing off the pink and lavender jewels intricately embedded around the crown’s edge, which perfectly matched his pink sunglasses and purple t-shirt. Steve was completely distracted by Bucky’s sparkling kaleidoscope... it should be a painting really. A mash-up of Renaissance majesty and candy colored punk attitude…

He was suddenly jerked out of his vision by another odd declaration.  

“I like to _smoke_ plants,” Clint chuckled, pausing his throw, catch, throw, catch, for a fraction of a second to appreciate his own commentary, before resuming the rhythm.

“Um...” Steve was lost.

_Yes?_ ” Bucky stretched his long neck out towards him, turning his head as if to listen closely.  

Throw, catch, throw, catch. God, that was distracting...it was all distracting...jesus, get it together! Steve took a deep breath, and asked, “Ummm, will you please join the team?”

The throwing and catching stopped as Clint swiveled his head comically towards Bucky. Steve imagined the bells and points of a purple and gold court jester hat swinging wildly with the motion, and he could hear them jingle as he waited…

Bucky just sat there.

And Steve just stood there.

The insane, New York City Rooftop Kingdom seemed to stand still, respectfully waiting for the judgement of its King. The jester swiveled his head back and forth, from Steve to Bucky, from Bucky to Steve, and it seemed to take forever for Bucky to finally speak. And what he said, he declared with authority.

“Yes.”

Wait. What? No way he just said that. “Yes?”

“Yes.”

“Really?” Why was Steve acting like a nervous school girl? This guy was wearing a lavender ‘My Little Pony’ t-shirt for christ’s sake!

“Sam told you my conditions?” He tapped the heel of his boot on the concrete block for emphasis, and Steve heard the sound of it echoing against stone walls of a vast hall.

“Yeah he did. I'll do my best.”

“No, not just your best. I'm serious. I can't take that crap all the time.”

Steve stopped, as the first crack that he’d ever seen in Bucky Barnes’ brazen facade appeared in the middle of his chest. The glistening crown melted away, the throne dissolved into a sun-faded garage sale reject, and what was left was just a guy...sitting on a New York rooftop...asking with his eyes, if he could trust Steve.     

Something inside of him hurt at that. It had been bugging him, ever since Fury had pulled he and Sam into the office to talk about Bucky yesterday. It was bringing up something that Steve had kept buried deep for a long, long time; violently causing it to bubble to the surface. With Bucky Barnes physically sitting right in front of him, Steve couldn’t deny that he’d been a part of the abuse that had caused the pained look in Bucky’s steel blue eyes.

Steve was a good guy, wasn’t he? God, maybe he wasn’t. Sure, he’d steered the guys away whenever he’d seen them heckling Bucky and his friends, but he hadn't done more to stop it. He’d stood by and let it happen over and over, for _years_ , instead of taking a stand like the leader that he was supposed to be. In fact, with Bucky staring at him and the tension in the air palpable, Steve realized that he hadn’t been taking a stand about a _lot_ of things in his life lately. He felt a knot twisting in his stomach, because his mom wouldn’t have wanted him to act like that; to be the person who stepped aside and did  _nothing_. She had always told him that the price of being who you are is high, but that it’s a price you should be willing to pay. How had he let himself slip so far away from her example? She’d be ashamed.

Plus, Steve still had no clue why Bucky made him so nervous, and standing here in front of him was making it _so_ much worse. Ever since Freshmen year, when Bucky had left his Brooklyn Public School to come to Eaton with his dad and sister, Natasha, Steve had always felt weird around Bucky Barnes. And the thing that drove him nuts about it, was that he could never figure out _why_! Was it because Bucky was openly gay, and always has been? Steve didn’t think that was it...was it? Was it the fact that his asshole friends picked on Bucky because he was poor (compared to the rich kids who _payed_ to go to Eaton), or because he dressed and looked different than anyone else that Steve knew? Was it because he seemed totally comfortable existing in his own little world with a few other artsy kids? Like he was better than everyone else? He had no idea. All Steve _did_ know, was that every single time he’d seen Bucky Fucking Barnes for the last three years, he’d felt something undefinable. And this feeling had confused him so much that Bucky had become ‘Bucky Fucking Barnes’, and Steve had stood back and done nothing while people had treated him like shit on his watch. While people were _still_ treating him like shit! Steve’s fingertips were starting to feel numb...

Realization washed over Steve like golden rays of divine judgement, and he suddenly felt lower than dirt. Everything he’d been repressing, hiding from, denying, you name it, hit Steve full force in the stomach with the heaviness of an iron anchor. He was gonna throw up.

It felt like his mother was somehow using Bucky Barnes as a vessel, to tell Steve that it was time to change. He missed his mom so much. Steve tried to slow down his breathing, and he really meant it when he looked directly into Bucky’s bright eyes, and said, “I promise.”

Bucky leapt to his feet so suddenly, that his ridiculous sunglasses fell backwards off his head and clattered across the roof. Steve was so startled, that he actually took a few clumsy steps backwards. Paying the lost sunglasses no mind, Bucky jumped up onto the concrete blocks and paused for just a moment before leaping towards Steve, landing dramatically right in front of him.

The King extended his hand with a flourish, the facade one-hundred percent back in play, and proclaimed, “Then we have a deal.”

Steve cautiously shook Bucky’s hand, the one with a silver ring on every one of his long fingers, and caught the little glints of colored light reflecting onto his own t-shirt. They bounced and danced to a chorus of whoops and applause, courtesy of the jester, who now was standing precariously on the very edge of his brick tower; throwing, applauding, catching, throwing, applauding, catching that damn baseball. Grasping The King’s hand to seal their deal, Steve felt completely off kilter...dizzy even. Like he'd just made a much bigger decision than simply recruiting Bucky Fucking Barnes for the swim team. Truth be told, he couldn't have been more right.

 


	2. Purple Tips and Peppermint Sticks

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have to give a huge shout-out to my beta:   
> [Lorien](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lorien/pseuds/Lorien)  
> She kicks ass. Please check out her gorgeous Stucky art on Tumblr  
> [drjezdzany](http://drjezdzany.tumblr.com)  
> She works so hard to help make this story what it is, and she deserves all the love for her generosity, dedication, and awesomeness.
> 
> Happy reading! xoxo

                                                                                  

 

Bucky was outrageously thankful that ‘The Steve Rogers Event’, as he was now calling it, had burned through the atmosphere and slammed into his world on a Friday, because even after the shock waves had stopped, and the air had cleared, he still needed some serious digestion time to process the impact. After Steve Rogers had climbed back down the old iron ladder, Bucky and Clint stared at each other, in complete and utter confusion, for about five minutes. Inside Bucky’s head he was reeling. What the hell had just happened? Why the fuck did he say yes? Why the fuck did Clint _let_ him say yes? Now what!?

The air on the rooftop felt tense and unreal, like a scene from an exaggerated Hollywood disaster movie. Bucky imagined Deep Voice Guy narrating the dramatic aftermath: The giant asteroid has slammed into the Earth, covering the survivors in a thick layer of dust and blood and left them aimlessly wandering the streets in confusion, wondering what the hell to do next? Would another bigger asteroid follow? Would the next blazing space rock cause an Extinction Level Event!? Or, was this Earth shattering blast the chance for a new beginning? Was _this_ the opportunity to start civilization again without the mistakes of the past?

Bucky pictured himself at the top of a tall mountain, surrounded by evergreen trees and watching in shock as the giant waves flowed over the lower peaks. Had he climbed high enough to survive the tsunami and start the world anew with the blonde chick standing next to him, holding the baby? Was Steve the blonde chick? Then who was the baby? Bucky laughed at himself for conjuring up such a ridiculous image. If he was comparing Steve Rogers asking him to join the swim team to Elijah Wood standing on a mountaintop at the end of ‘Deep Impact’, then he was definitely watching too many disaster films.  

Stuck in his head, Bucky sat back down in his plastic lawn chair and closed his eyes. The sun had started its daily descent between the tall towers of the city and was casting long shadows across Bucky’s and Clint’s shellshocked features, while the industrial size, silver air conditioner was bouncing an errant ray of sunshine across Bucky’s face. He could feel the heat of it warming his right cheek, and the sensation was enough to pull him out of his ‘Armageddon/Deep Impact’ analogy (they were basically the same movie), but not enough to make him acknowledge the reality of the cataclysmic shift in the atmosphere. That was gonna take some time.

Bucky pushed all of his hair over his face, and said, “Saturday hangout at your place?”

“Pick up a pizza from Anthony’s on the way?” Clint jumped off the chimney, his combat boots landing with a thud. He trotted up to Bucky and grabbed his wrists to pull him out of his very comfy chair.

They headed for the ladder, and he leaned into Clint (spiky jean vest and all), knocking him slightly off balance, before Bucky laughed, “After all the crazy shit that just went down, I’m gonna order two!”  

*****

 

Bucky successfully pushed the images of fire, explosions, waves, and Frodo to the back of his mind while they were driving home to Brooklyn. He and Clint were shoved into the tiny back seat of his Dad’s Toyota Corolla, while their red-headed matriarch rode shotgun. Even though she was five foot four on a good day and would comfortably fit in the back seat; if Natasha wanted shotgun, Natasha got shotgun. Bucky certainly wasn’t gonna risk his life challenging her for the seat, and Clint was trying to score ‘please, date me’ points, so he wasn’t gonna say shit either. So here they were, stuck in the back seat with no fucking leg room.

Phil was chattering on and on about his day and asking all the usual parental questions, and Bucky was happily playing along and giving Phil all the usual teenager answers: “yes, I had a good day”, “yes, I did good on my Spanish quiz”, “no, I didn’t get bothered by anyone”, and “yes, I have homework this weekend” (because teachers were sadists). Bucky thought he was giving an Oscar winning performance in the role of ‘Bored High School Senior’, but Natasha (damn her and her super spy senses) turned around and gave Bucky her signature squinty eyed glare. It was the look that lets you know that she’s one-hundred percent aware that _something’s_ going on, but out of the simple goodness of her heart she’ll keep it to herself (for now). Bucky ignored her, choosing the much better option of pressing his cheek against the cool car window, and watching as the brilliant lights of Manhattan changed into the burnt-out street lamps of their neighborhood.

“See you tomorrow, dickface, and don’t forget my Monsters!” Clint laughed, as he swung his legs out of the car.

“Hey, watch your language,” Phil sighed. “I mean, really? Dickface?”

“He does kinda have a dick face, Dad.” Natasha quirked up one side of her mouth, and starred casually at her blood red nail polish. She could be such a little shit, and Bucky loved her for it.

Phil released a long suffering, but amused sigh as he wrapped his hands tighter around the steering wheel. “I don’t even know what that means,” he said, shaking his head. “Just get out of my car, Clint.”  

Bucky smiled and kicked his leg towards Clint’s ass, just missing as he hauled himself through the open door. Bummer, he deserved a Doc Marten to the butt. “Keep calling me dickface and we’ll see if I bring you anything at all tomorrow. Boys who call their best friend’s super attractive faces phalluses, don’t deserve to have mozzarella goodness in their dirty mouths.”

“Two pizzas, two Monsters. That’s the price of admission, cupcake”

“Oh my god, I like dickface better than cupcake! Jesus, Clint!” Bucky laughed. “See ya tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow, dickface!”

Clint slammed the car door a little too hard, and took the stairs up to his door two at a time. Phil waited (like he always did) until Clint had disappeared into the apartment building, before pulling the car back into the narrow street and driving the last few blocks home. They passed Anthony’s on the way, and Bucky was already looking forward to devouring at least half of a large pizza by himself.

*****

 

 

Bucky was pretty fucking impressed with himself for managing to keep ‘The Steve Rogers Event’ out of his mind for as long as he did. He succeeded in this impossible mission for two and a half hours, until the twenty-thousand question was posed to him directly. If he could have thought about how hot Tom Cruise had looked free climbing that mountain in ‘Mission Impossible 2’, instead of answering the question, he totally would have; but he was crowded around their tiny, round kitchen table with his Dad and Natasha, and there was no escaping to Utah. Bucky had been happily shoveling leftover lasagna into his face, when his Dad set down his fork, and asked, “So, Bucky. Did Coach Fury catch up to you today?”

Suddenly, the red and white checks of their vintage tablecloth seemed _very_ interesting. Bucky gently touched each red check around his plate, making patterns with his fingertips; don’t touch the white ones, skip two, don’t touch the white. He knew he had to get his Dad’s permission to switch teams, and he might as well do the big reveal in front of Natasha, since she always managed to find out everything anyway. Skip three, don’t touch the white. But this was a _huge_ change; Frodo standing at the edge of the Volcano change, and both of them were bound to have a thousand opinions. Touch two, skip diagonal, don’t touch the white.

“You seem really distracted,” Phil said, taking a long swig of his root beer.

Bucky loved root beer; so delicious, especially with ice cream.

His dad was relentless, and kept right on pushing. “Is there anything that you’d like to talk about?”

He paused his game of checkers...damn, his index finger was halfway on a white square.

“Something’s _definitely_ up, just spit it out, Bucky,” Natasha kicked him under the table with her tiny little foot. His sister was always straight to the point; it was one of the things that Bucky loved most about her.

Blowing out a really long breath, Bucky took his fingers off the tablecloth and set his hands in his lap, because he was nervous about the whole thing. He looked up through the curtain of his hair and was instantly relieved by both of their expressions. They seemed curious and a little worried, but not pissed, which made Bucky realize that it was gonna be okay. Just like Clint always had his back, they did too. They were both looking at him with so much genuine love and concern, that he felt stupid for hesitating to tell them in the first place. God, he was lucky.

He let his socked foot rest on top of Natasha’s, then spilled the whole crazy story all over the leftover lasagna and the caramel colored glass bottles of hipster Root Beer, before grabbing his bug-out bag and preparing to face the first wave of repercussions from ‘The Steve Roger’s Event’.

His Dad was worried about Dad stuff: letting down the community team, the increased demand on Bucky’s schedule, and the daily interaction with the jocks. But, he was super excited about the potential for Bucky to earn a swimming scholarship. Sure, he made good money at Eaton, but it certainly wasn’t enough to pay for two bright kids, to go to two ‘bright kid’ colleges, at the exact same time. Apparently Coach Fury had mentioned the possibility of recruiting Bucky to his Dad a few days ago, so even though the news hadn’t been a complete surprise, the reality of it still worried him. Bucky didn’t blame him one bit for imagining giant asteroids falling from space too. The past few years had been pretty damn rough on everyone. It took a few minutes for Phil to loosen his tie, and to switch from root beer to real beer, but after a few swigs he finally agreed to support the switch, if Bucky really thought he could handle it. And that was the big question of the evening: could Bucky handle it? He let his toes creep underneath Natasha’s foot, because he really wasn’t sure.

Natasha on the other hand (who was secretly a giant softy) was worried about Bucky’s ‘emotional well being’. Basically, would Bucky be coming into her bedroom, every single night for the rest of their senior year, to bitch about the daily shitstorm that Brock, Jack and Frank would inevitably rain down on him? She’d been there before, with creamy hot cocoa and marshmallows, petting Bucky’s hair while he vented about all the crap those dicks had pulled at school. She was well aware of the hurtful names, and the cruel pranks, and the non-stop bullying and it made her furious. Natasha was friends with a lot of the popular kids, and most of the swim team, but Bucky always made her swear to stay the hell out of it. He didn’t need to make things even worse by adding ‘the wimp that needs his sister to protect him’, to Brock Rumlow’s carefully crafted list of reasons to pick on Bucky Barnes. That list was fucking long enough.

Then there was the big one; his ridiculous heart-eyed crush on the beautiful Steve Rogers. He was so fucking hot, and it drove Bucky nuts. He had to talk to somebody about his cute ass, and his light blue eyes, and how wide his shoulders were in his boring polo shirts, so even though she teased him about it all the time, Natasha knew all about it. She put her other foot on top of his toes and tipped her head too give him a very serious look of sisterly concern. Bucky would bet a million dollars that she was questioning his motivation and already knew that his decision had everything to do with Mr. All American Blond Beefcake. He might feel bad about it, if it wasn’t for Steve’s ass. The way it looked in a pair of tight jeans could tempt Bucky into a pit of venomous snakes on his quest for The Holy Grail of asses.

Bucky kept shoving lasagna into his face to hide...which, he had to admit, was a pretty shitty hiding spot...while Natasha kept right on using her green eyes to convey her concern (or to hypnotize him)...he wasn’t sure which one. He could only eat so much lasagna before his stomach exploded, so he had to say _something_. But first, he had to undo his belt buckle, because he’d eaten so many carbs that he was totally gonna puke noodles everywhere if he didn’t.

Natasha was right to worry...fuck...he was worried too! But there was something inside of Bucky whispering that he should do this (shouting actually). Yes, it would alter his landscape dramatically, but he was weirdly excited to see what would happen once he wiped the dust and blood off of his skin. Elijah Wood did make it to the top of that mountain after all. Even though his cheeks were stuffed with a huge bite of lasagna that he didn’t want to swallow, Bucky’s eyes must have said enough, because Natasha leaned back in her chair and nodded. Good. Two more supporters to add to his massive list of three.

*****

 

 

A primal need for pizza therapy had wormed its way into Bucky’s dreams, so when he woke up on Saturday, with the noonday sun very rudely shining in his eyes, he could practically taste the greasy goodness on his tongue. The rock solid support of his Dad and Natasha, and his distended stomach, had done nothing to erase his urge for delicious, cheesy pizza to soothe his very confused soul.

He crawled out of his fuzzy blanket cocoon, and threw on his Prince ‘Purple Rain’ t-shirt. Pulling the tight cotton over his flat stomach...no, it was not flat today...pulling the tight cotton over his swollen lasagna belly, he thought about the lucky day when he’d found this majestic, purple gem at Salvation Army. Not only had Prince joined his closet, but also a pristine Olivia Newton John ‘Physical Tour’ shirt from 1982, a beautifully aged REO Speedwagon t-shirt from 1984, and a wicked Metallica ‘Ride the Lightning’ jersey had come home to daddy.

His friend Daisy, their resident gothic princess, had dug deep into the racks of color coded t-shirts and found herself a sweet Cure “Disintegration’ classic, which had made Bucky totally jealous. He smiled at the thought of Daisy’s face when she’d discovered the vintage, faux fur, leopard print coat buried behind the puffy eighties ski parkas. Poor Clint had walked out with one lowly ‘Circle Jerks’ shirt (not even vintage) and he’d bitched for hours about the unfairness of the punk pickings at Sal’s.

Bucky chuckled at the thrift store memories, while he dragged a pair of beat up black jeans over his narrow hips and threw his black beanie over his messy brown hair. Pizza was the priority right now, not perfect hair.

 

 

The air was crisp with the first hints of fall, and Bucky felt weirdly excited as he bopped along the cracked Brooklyn sidewalk towards Anthony’s. The old white cat that always hung out in the window of the vacuum store?...he totally waved and blew him a kitty kiss. The empty two liter of Mt. Dew rolling around next the bus stop?...he totally threw it away to help save the planet. The homeless guy with the dreadlocks hanging out by the record store?...he totally gave him ten bucks.

Bucky adjusted his patriotic American flag Beats and cranked up his iPod to proper ‘Saturday Night Fever’ strutting volume. Natasha, being her typically snarky self, had bought Bucky the headphones for his birthday last March. As he’d torn off the red and white striped wrapping paper and had revealed the stars and stripes below, she’d whispered, “I thought you might like these, since you‘ve been crushing on a certain All-American jock for three years now.” She’d plucked the primary blue ribbon off the remnants of the paper, and stuck it to the top of Bucky’s head with a condescending little tap. “You know I love you little brother,” she’d chuckled, as she’d pinched his cheek and winked.

They were quite possibly his favorite gift _ever_.

Justin Timberlake was singing ‘Can’t stop the feeling’, and he couldn’t have spoken truer words! Bucky _couldn’t_ stop himself from strutting as he made his way down the sidewalk. He couldn’t explain it, but this ridiculous song perfectly described his current mood; it felt like he had fuchsia Troll hair and glittery skin. It was a weird mixture of kinda nervous, kinda confused, kinda freaked out, kinda excited...but however you defined it, he certainly couldn’t stop it. So, Bucky didn’t try.

The neighbors were pretty used to Bucky’s traditional morning dance party anyway, so even though there might be a little extra pep in his step on this fine day, the wrinkly old folks and the manscaped hipsters barely gave him a second glance. Nothing to see here, it’s just Bucky Barnes, strutting past your open windows in his baby blue Converse and sporting his best Travolta duck face. He rounded the corner with a perfect disco spin, then strutted into his favorite old school pizzeria.

Clint’s place was six blocks east of Anthony’s, and Bucky’s arms were loaded down with two giant pizza boxes, a six pack of Coke, and two Monsters. Sadly, that meant he had to slow down his dance party tempo, even when ‘Starboy’ by The Weeknd popped up on his shuffle. Drag, that was his new jam. Sighing, Bucky rebalanced the load of deliciousness and tried not to trip on the uneven sidewalk. The only good thing about the slower pace was that it gave Bucky some pre-Clint time to figure out why the hell he was feeling like such a sparkly Troll. Yes, he was in a good mood, a ‘John Travolta decked out in a leather jacket’ good mood, but it was kinda weird (really weird).

God, this food was getting heavy! Five more fucking blocks.

Pushing himself onwards and upwards, despite the fact that his arms were going to fall off, he tried to think constructively about the weirdness. Where to start, where to start? First of all, the fact that the great and powerful Captain Steve Rogers had hauled his hot little ass up the rickety old ladder to Bucky’s secret rooftop hideout, was completely and totally jarring. It still wasn’t computing…

Bucky’s Dad had handed over the key when the bullying had first started in ninth grade, because he understood the need to escape the Richie Rich nightmare of Eaton’s inner bowels sometimes. Of course, the key had come with a long list of rules, that they only broke once in awhile (mostly Clint did the breaking, but whatever): no skipping class to hide out, no drinking, no sex, no smoking, no drugs, and no “Tomfoolerly”, as Phil had put it. Only Bucky, Clint, and their other two Eaton friends, Daisy and Skinner, even knew that the place existed (let alone were allowed to climb the ladder), which meant that Sam Wilson and Steve Rogers had been the first people outside of their squad of misfit toys, to have ever set foot in his safe zone.

Maybe that’s why Bucky had felt so weirded out by his ‘Twilight Zone’ reaction, when Sam Wilson had caught up to them on Friday. It had been a typical day; Bucky, Clint and Nat had been stuck at school (as always) until Phil got done doing whatever boring shit principals do. It pained Bucky greatly that none of them had a car, which meant that they were stuck with Principal Barnes’ Toyota Taxi Service to get back to their Brooklyn homeland. Some days, they’d take the subway, but yesterday he and Clint had been a couple of lazy fucks and had decided to hang out on the roof until their taxi turned it’s light on. Clint had said he wanted to smoke, and Bucky’d had very committed plans to study for his Math test, or possibly to just lay in the afternoon sun and chill. Okay, there had been no way that he was gonna study. Regardless, they’d been on a mission, and The Great Sam Wilson, with the megawatt smile, had rudely interrupted it.

His iPod decided to slow down the groove with some classic ‘Off the Wall’ Michael Jackson (good job, iPod) and Bucky smiled to himself. There was nothing like the smooth sounds of ‘Human Nature’ to distract him from the intense burning in his shoulder muscles. At least he was burning off his lasagna belly before he made it worse with pizza belly.

Soldiering on, Bucky still couldn’t believe the state Sam had been in when he’d caught up to them in the upstairs hallway on their way to the roof. He’d been totally out of breath, like he’d just run up four flights of stairs...which, now that Bucky was thinking about it...he probably had. Sam’d zeroed in on Bucky, like Clint didn’t even exist, and had said, “Hey, man. I need to talk to you.”

Looking him up and down, Bucky had tried to figure out why in the hell he was there, instead of driving around in his Corvette Stingray or flying to Switzerland in his private jet (or whatever rich kids did for fun on a Friday night), but he’d had no fucking idea. Sam had bent over, putting his hands on his knees to try to catch his breath, so Bucky’d had plenty of time to analyze his outfit. Clothes provided lots of clues (he’d learned that on ‘Dexter’) but his grey basketball shorts and damp white t-shirt hadn’t helped him solve the case. The only things he’d deduced was that Sam had quickly thrown his shirt on after getting wet and that his muscles were almost as nice as Steve’s.

Bucky must have paused too long, because Clint had kicked him  in the shin with his steel toe boot, which had hurt like a bitch. “Jesus, what the fuck dude?”

“Um, thought you might wanna answer this guy sometime this century.”

Sam’d had his eyebrows raised like he was waiting for Bucky to say something...anything...but Bucky had been _really_ distracted by that wet t-shirt. The case had started coming together; it had most likely been wet because Sam had just finished swim practice...actually, there had been no _probably_ about it; Bucky had known for a fact that Sam Wilson, with his glowing brown skin and blindingly white smile, had been coming from practice. How had he known? It certainly hadn’t been because Bucky had actively avoided the pool, and its entire surrounding area, like the plague whenever practice was going on. He had enough self-preservation skills to keep his ass out of that fucking minefield. And that had been the true mystery: since Bucky would never go near Sam Wilson on purpose, there had been no logical reason that a damp Sam Wilson would be four floors up in an abandoned hallway asking to talk to him. It had been obvious that something was weird from the start.

His arms were about to give up the ghost, and the six pack of Coke started sliding off the top of the pizza box, so Bucky had to stop to rebalance everything. Oh my god, if he dropped these fucking pizzas at this point he would cry... _legit_ cry over spilt cheesy goodness while he hit his head on the concrete. The neighbors would _not_ be used to _that_. Fine, rest time. Bucky took a minute to sit his ass on a rusty bus stop bench and stare at the quirky buildings around him. The new hipster brunch spot was directly across the street, with its staple crowd of hipsters, and their wide assortment of beards gathered around the front while they waited for a table. It was funny how they swarmed under the red hipster awning, next to the neon hipster sign that said ‘Toast’, while they peered down at their hipster cellphones. Really, they were just regular cellphones, but he’d been on a roll. Bucky didn’t get it; why stand so close, if you’re just gonna stare at your fucking phone?

Bucky leaned back against the bench and lowered the volume on his headphones, and was hit with a sudden wave of overwhelming nostalgia. When Phil had first adopted Bucky and Natasha from Russia when they’d been twelve, everything in Brooklyn had been so weird, and new, and full of color. Back then, the hipster hot spot had been an old school Barber Shop, complete with a twirling white and red peppermint stick barber pole. He could still remember looking at that pole with utter fascination, and thinking that it was so simple and beautiful at the same time.

He was so damn tempted to pull out a slice right here on this bench, but he was a respectful guy and would wait ‘till he got to Clint’s, even though his mouth had been watering for blocks. In Hipsterland some dude with a handlebar moustache, that had obviously been carefully curled with Murray’s Pomade, was talking to a chick wearing big black nerd glasses with bright red lipstick. She was pretty. Bucky wondered if Moustache Man knew that his twenty-eight dollar breakfast burrito, with homemade chorizo and thinly sliced avocado, was being served to him (and his waxed moustache) on top of the remnants of Brooklyn History? His table could be over the very spot where Murray’s Pomade had been used to make all the Brooklyn Boys look extra fly on a Disco Saturday Night. Now, instead of barber chairs, it was littered with rich millennials using Murray’s to make them feel even hipper for Hipster Saturday Brunch.

Bucky wasn’t passing judgment; he was cool with almost anybody, and those breakfast burritos were _to die for_ , but the whole scene got him thinking about change. He blew out a breath and shook out his arms, preparing for the final blocks. Bucky could make it, he could do this, so he picked up the heavy-ass load of pizza deliciousness and started walking.

It took a few steps for him to start thinking about ‘The Steve Rogers Event’ again, because he was pathetic. The first hint that Steve Rogers had been on a direct path towards Bucky’s planet had been Sam Wilson, all wet with raised eyebrows, catching up to him in that hallway. Now, he could see that Sam had been the little warning meteor that crashes into the middle of the desert and doesn’t really do much damage. Sure, it makes a crater, but it doesn’t really have any impact on your everyday life. That’s why Bucky hadn’t really seen the giant asteroid that was about to strike, when Sam had said, “I need to talk to you, man.”

It had to have been shock or something, that had made Bucky say, “Then follow us.”

Nineteen hours had passed since ‘Space Rock Sam Wilson’ had crash landed in the middle of Bucky’s desert, and he _still_ had no fucking clue why those words had vomited out of his mouth. The look that Clint had given him, had made it pretty clear that he’d thought Bucky had been out of his fucking mind.

Bucky used his dimpled chin to rebalance the six pack, and tried to justify it; maybe it had been a weird Freudian impulse?...some sort of latent-caveman-brain-attempt to put himself on more equal footing with Alpha Male Sam Wilson? If that had been it, Bucky had to give Freud some serious props, because watching Sam Wilson squirm had given Bucky all sorts of deep-seeded pleasure. He chuckled, thinking about how he and Clint had played with Sam like a nice new chew toy, and man, feeling like he was top dog for once? Well, that had been pretty damn nice. But when The Golden God himself had entered Bucky’s territory, he’d felt something entirely different. Watching Steve Rogers in his too-tight grey henley, with his precisely distressed three-hundred dollar jeans, looking totally lost and nervous, had made Bucky feel like a complete asshole for putting him in that position. When he’d sat there, in his favorite chair, he’d felt the heat of the big rock entering his atmosphere, and had realized that he hadn’t wanted to stop it. It was confusing as hell.

 _Finally_ , Clint’s beat up building came into view, and he felt calmer just looking at it. Bucky loved the rusted railing, that curled with art deco details, he loved Ms. Jackson’s overflowing window boxes and her two fat tabby cats sticking their heads out the hole in her screen, but most of all, he loved hearing Clint’s guitar echoing from the top floor; filling the street with brutal punk riffs, classic Elton John and Billy Joel melodies, or eighties hair metal solos. Bucky never got sick of watching Clint playing ‘Sweet Child of Mine’...never.

He carefully maneuvered up the front steps, the Coke threatening to fall at any second, then squatted down to ring the buzzer with his nose. While Bucky waited for the noises pouring out of Clint’s amp to stop (he was in a punk mood today), Bucky realized that the weirdest thing about this whole crazy situation was that Steve Rogers was being _weird_. On the roof, Steve’s personality had done a one-hundred-and-eighty-degree shift, and that was the thing that was freaking him out the most.

Bucky was used to staring across the lunchroom, as Steve loudly talked about the latest Stark party, or rambled about swimming to a rapt crowd of his jock friends. The whole group always hung on Steve’s every word like he was God himself, belting out The Ten Commandments to Moses and his flock. Bucky guessed that Sam would be Moses in this scenario, and laughed at the thought of him with a biblically long white beard. The Steve Rogers that he secretly stalked was the kind of guy who confidently strolled down the hall in between classes, with his perfect posture, sinfully wide shoulders, and the tiny waist that Bucky always thought about when he jerked off, with a pretty girl teetering on high heels next to him. His current girlfriend was Sharon Carter, and Bucky had been trying really hard to keep his irrational jealousy under control. Whatever, Bucky was definitely _not_ used to Steve Rogers shoving his hands into the pockets of his very expensive jeans, while weirdly complementing Bucky’s plant.

“Hey, cupcake. That better be you, and you’d better have a big steaming pie with you!” Clint hollered through the ancient intercom.

It was completely unhygienic, but Bucky’s only option was to press the button with his nose again. Laughing, and trying not to drop everything, he yelled, “This stuff’s about to end up all over your stoop if you don’t buzz me in right this second, buddy! And stop calling me cupcake!”

“Ha. No way, dickface! You know I’m not coming down to help, right? I’m _way_ too comfortable up here in my jammies.”

“C’mon….” Bucky whined. He couldn’t even imagine how he must look to the people walking by; all hunched over, with his nose glued to the wall, and loaded down with pizza and pop. “Let me up, dipshit!” The buzzer finally jolted to life, and Bucky felt the vibration in his brain.

Clint’s apartment was one of Bucky’s favorite places to be. Everything was always so chill, he could totally be himself, and there were a thousand fun things to do. When he shoved through the creaky door and started up the narrow stairs, Bucky could already feel the manic energy, that had been buzzing through his body since Steve Rogers blasted into him, starting to dissolve. This Saturday Pizza Powwow had been such a stellar idea. Before he even made it up to the top of the landing (without dropping everything, thank you very much) Bucky heard Clint’s dog, Lucky, barking and scratching at the door. Whether it was the sound of Bucky’s sneakers bouncing up the metal stairs, or the delectable aroma of pepperoni, sausage and bacon that signaled Lucky, was currently up for debate.

The sound of Clint’s voice, as he yelled, “Get back, bro! Hold your horses,” made Bucky feel safe; home away from home.  

“Awww, you’ve got so much meat in your hands!” Clint said, in an exaggeratedly seductive voice, when he pulled open the door. “How do you even handle that much meat, cupcake?” Clint grabbed the Coke and Monsters off the top, and planted a kiss on the top of Bucky’s sweaty head.

“Oh, Clint,” Bucky chuckled. “How soon you forget.”

“Shut-up.” He pushed Bucky towards his bedroom. “Don’t trip on Lucky.”

“Well he’s under my feet trying to get our pizza, so…”

Lucky made one last attempt, before Bucky managed to shut the door, and lean back against it. “Jesus, Clint, why can’t your dog like dog food like a normal fucking dog?”

Lucky was scratching like crazy, but Bucky had worked too hard to get this pizza here to share.

“Because he’s smart enough to know that pizza is fucking amazing, and dog food is made with disgusting remnants of cow guts and corn. It _means_ he’s got good taste, as any dog of mine should.”

Bucky pushed his weight off the door, careful not to rip Clint’s prized Misfits poster, then headed for the bed with the pizzas. “ _Right_ , says the guy who eats three-day-old pizza that was left on the couch overnight!”

“C’mon, dude, that was _one_ time!” Clint squatted down to load the drinks into his mini-fridge and rolled his eyes.

Bucky threw a bunch of dirty clothes off the bed, and sat down next to the pizza, because this was gonna be a fun little chat. “Yeah, and I’m the one who held your hair out of your face while you puked for five hours.”

“I _knew_ you resented me for that! All this time, I knew! See if I hold _your_ Kellin Quinn hair out of your face the next time you get wasted! Totally gonna let you puke all over yourself and your precious scene boy mop.”

“Oh, fuck you,” Bucky chuckled, as he cracked the top of the Coke Clint had tossed onto the bedspread. It made a loud hiss but didn’t explode (thank god).

“No, fuck _you_.” Clint threw himself next to Bucky, with a huge smile, and grabbed a meat covered slice. He took a huge bite, and mumbled, “God, Anthony’s has the best pizza! How’d we get lucky enough to have such perfect pizza right down the block?”

“It’s like five blocks.”

“Are you being whiny?” Clint punched him in the shoulder, before handing Bucky a slice.

“Yes.”

“Well, get over it and shove that pizza in your mouth. You’ll be a happy camper instantly.

As soon as the cheese, and the tangy sauce, and the pepperoni grease hit his taste buds, Bucky was a new man; a very very very happy man. He didn’t even bother trying to keep his mouth closed when he said, “Maybe that’s why your mom moved here.”

“I think you’re totally right, dude. Pizza and stunning squalid atmosphere. That’s the true ticket when picking a place to live.” Clint grabbed out a second slice; these pizzas didn’t have a chance.

Bucky scooched back against the headboard, while shoving the last of his first slice into his mouth, and making grabby hands for round two. “So, Netflix first?”

Clint smirked, and lowered his chin, before seductively murmuring, “Netflix and _chill_?’

He was a fucker like that.

Bucky could not have rolled his eyes further back into his head, as he scoffed, “I think now that you’re trying to date my sister, we should probably just do Netflix.”

“What? You aren’t down for some step-sibling ‘Cruel Intentions’ action? I could totally be Cecile, all naive and annoying.” Clint fell back on the bed, and dramatically threw his arm across his eyes.

“I don’t think that you could kiss that bad if you tried...god, so much spit!” Bucky stuck out his tongue and shook his head, trying to clear the disgusting image of Cecile kissing Catherine with all that slimy tongue from his mind. So gross. “I do think that I’d make an excellent Sarah Michelle Gellar though.”

“So, that means Nat is Sebastian?” Clint laughed. “I think she’d wanna be Catherine. She already thinks she’s the mastermind of everything, and you should totally be Sebastian; falling in love with the blonde beauty. That totally fits real life, cupcake.”

“No, no, no. I’m _definitely_ Catherine. I’ll fight Natasha for the role.” Bucky kicked his foot at Clint’s side, and tried not to think about how it felt to do that when Clint wasn’t wearing a shirt.

Clint chugged the rest of his Coke and cracked a Monster. “Well, we all know how that movie ended, so unless you want Nat to get smashed by a truck, we should probably put the past in the past.”  

Yeah, good idea. Bucky shook out his hair, then created his traditional tornado-topknot before securing it with a red rubber band from his wrist. “So, Netflix?”

“I wanna finish ‘Stranger Things’!”

“Oh, good idea!” Bucky dug out the remote from under a pile of comics and a bottle of lotion (classy) on the nightstand. “I hope Eleven kicks everyone’s ass!”

“Dude! You should _totally_ be Eleven for Halloween!” Clint dragged himself up on the bed so he was next to Bucky, and pulled both pizzas with him. They were both on slice number three. “You can wear the pink dress!”

“No way. I’m not shaving my head _or_ wearing a dress! How about _you_ be Eleven! I think it would be cute if you threw a blonde wig over that mohawk and rocked the pink dress!”

“Oh, challenging gender stereotypes. I like that Buck. You can be Winona Ryder; you two have the same haircut, and we can strap a battery to you then wrap you up in Christmas lights!”

“Clint, it’s not challenging gender stereotypes if you make me the freaked out mom! But whatever, it’s the thought that counts.” Bucky threw the remote into Clint’s lap, before putting an end to slice number three. “Christmas lights to keep me safe while we trick or treat _and_ a nod to current pop culture? I’m down.”

 

 

After two giant meaty pizzas had magically disappeared into their stomachs, along with four cans of Coke and one Monster, Clint had decided to smoke a huge joint while they finished the last episode of ‘Stranger Things’. Bucky didn’t understand how Clint smoked so much fucking weed, but it had certainly made their twenty minute debate on Eleven’s fate way more interesting.

Bucky was happily lounging on his back, rubbing his hands over his pizza belly, when the look in Clint’s eyes changed; and it wasn’t the weed. The moment had arrived. ‘The Steve Rogers Event’ had been the reason for the Pizza Party Powwow in the first place, so Bucky shouldn’t be surprised. Giving his poofy belly a few more good rubs, he thought about the old barber shop and wondered if things would be better if they’d been left as they were? If Brooklyn would be happier if the peppermint pole was still rotating around and around, doing the same safe thing it had always known? Or, were the hipsters, with their fancy twelve-dollar Bloody Marys, the way to go? Bucky honestly didn’t know if he was ready to talk about asteroid, but when Clint rolled over onto his side, propped up his head like a very interested Oprah Winfrey, and said, “So, you ready for Monday?” Bucky really didn’t have a choice.

“I dunno.” It was a pathetic answer, but it was the truth. He _didn’t_ know.

“I mean, you _are_ jumping right into the proverbial deep end with that perfect specimen who you’ve been obsessing about, so I guess you have every reason to be freaked out.” Clint winked at him, but Bucky knew he understood the magnitude of the situation.  

God, Bucky wanted to say Clint was wrong; but he was totally right. He wished he had more pizza.

“I’m nervous as hell, alright? I’m pretty sure that I’ve lost my goddamned mind...but I keep thinking about stupid Steve Rogers and then I’m...excited? Clint, why the fuck am I excited!?” Bucky covered his face with his hands, because there was no more fucking pizza.

“Hey man, let’s just pretend that you’re excited to kick every one of those rich, snobby assholes’ ass, and not because you’re horny for The Blond Wonder Boy.”

“Assholes’ ass?” Bucky chuckled through the cracks in his fingers.

“I’m standing by that, bro.”

Bucky snorted, and leaned up on his elbows to look Clint right in the face. “Okay, here’s the facts: I’m excited to be on a competitive team. The YMCA sucks. You know it, I know it, all of Brooklyn knows it, so yeah, winning sounds awesome. My dad’s excited for me to do well enough to try for a scholarship, and as he put it, “to stop hiding out on the roof.” But the truth is, no matter how good all that shit sounds, and no matter how cute I think Steve Rogers is, most of the guys on the team _hate_ me; and there’s a part of me that doesn’t know if it’s worth it.”

Clint put on his thinking face and let that sink in for a beat, before he jumped off the bed and said, “How about you dye my hair while we ponder it? I found some old school purple Manic Panic at Noir Leather the other day, and I need your skillful hands to do my tips.”

“You want my skillful hands on your tip?” Bucky cracked up. “I thought we already decided not to go all Catherine and Sebastian.”

“I don’t want a purple dick, dude!” Clint grabbed the tub of dye off his dresser, and threw it at Bucky’s head.

Bucky caught it easily with one hand, then snorted, “Yeah, that would definitely freak out Natasha...if your sorry ass ever manages to get that far.”

*****

 

 

It took less than ten minutes for Bucky’s gloved hands to get completely covered in bright purple hair dye, which he was intently trying to slather onto ‘just the tips’ of Clint’s mohawk. As is often the case with anything involving ‘just the tip’, Bucky had slid all the way in, and was getting it on Clint’s forehead, ears, neck, chest, back, the toilet, his own arms, his pants, and goddammit, even his sneakers!

“My new Chucks!” Bucky hollered, when a big purple glob dropped onto the laces of his beautiful baby blue shoes.

“Those are like a year old, dude!”

“Well, compared to the rest of my Chucks they’re new! Fuck!” Another drop landed on his left toe, which at least made them match.

“We should have used more Vaseline, my friend.” Clint looked at Bucky through the bathroom mirror and giggled.

“What, just slathered our entire bodies in Vaseline like Burt Reynolds?” Bucky threw his hands up in the air. The dye was winning. “I’m taking these gloves off. I can’t control this shit with them on!” He plucked them from his hands with a smack, and tossed them in the trash. Whatever, he’d just have purple hands. It’s not like he gave a fuck.

“Burt Reynolds?” Clint quirked his good ear towards Bucky. At least he’d had the sense to take off his hearing aid, while they dyed his hair.

“You know, in ‘Striptease’! Cowboy boots and Vaseline!? You’ve gotta remember that. I think we might have been high as hell when we watched it, but still!” Bucky dug out his best Burt Reynolds impression, and pretended to walk like his feet were jammed into a pair of cowboy boots that were filled to the brim with petroleum jelly. It was hard to do in Clint’s tiny bathroom. “It’s Vaseline. I can feel it squishing between my toes.”

Sudden gleeful realization crossed Clint’s features; Bucky had done Burt proud.

“Oh shit! Yeah, I remember ‘Striptease’! Demi Moore topless! Oh fuck!” Clint adopted a high pitched ‘Demi’ voice (which was totally wrong...her voice is low as hell), and drawled, “There’s no chance I’m gonna roll around naked in creamed corn with a bunch of drunk assholes trying to stick nibblits up my hooha!” Clint laughed so hard that he banged his purple head against the wall, and left a giant purple mark on his mom’s horrific floral wallpaper. “Fuck, her tits were _so hot_ in that movie! I mean, I know boobs aren't your thing but...”

“Hey, nobody said I can't appreciate boobs. Just because I got the gay card doesn’t mean boobs are off the table. I mean, boobs are awesome!”

Slathering the purple goop onto Clint’s hair was so much easier without the gloves, but seeing his hands completely covered in dye? Yeah, Bucky was gonna regret this later.

Clint started rubbing his chest, as he moaned, “Imagine purple hair dye all over her boobs! Purple all over, dripping down…” The motions Clint made with his hands over his imaginary Demi Moore boobs were a bit too much for Bucky. Way too much...

“Okay, no longer awesome. Nope. No, thank you.”

“But boobs!” Clint pouted.

Bucky surveyed his work, looking at Clint from all sides. The dye was mostly where is was supposed to be...plus about ten other locations...but at least it was on Clint’s tips now. “We look like that purple McDonald's monster.”

“Hamburglar?” Clint shifted on the toilet seat, and looked completely confused.

“No! Oh my god. That’s the black and white striped one! How high are you?”

“Very,” Clint laughed. “Barney?”

“Are you kidding me right now? Barney!?” Bucky tried to wash the purple off in the sink, but he was only managing to turn the white porcelain lavender. Clint started singing that insipid Barney song and poking at Bucky’s hip, which was annoying considering the current situation. “Clint! Stop pushing me! You’re making it worse!”

“Told you, bro. We needed to put Vaseline everywhere, so we could do ‘just the tips’.”

“Jesus Christ, maybe I do need new friends!” Bucky laughed, and shoved his ass back into Clint’s face, but there was not retaliation. He turned to smile at Clint, but his face had fallen and was sitting completely still on the toilet. The humor of Barney, boobs, and Vaseline was gone in an instant. Dammit, Bucky had fucked up.

“Hey,” he started quietly, grabbing Clint’s shoulder. Bucky didn’t care if he got purple dye all over his hands again. “I love you Clint, it was a joke...a stupid joke, but I didn’t mean it.”

“Awww, cupcake, I love you too.” Clint smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes; it was that fake smile you give to your Grandma when she buys you a stupid snowman sweater for Christmas. He let his hands rest on the counter on either side of Bucky’s hips, then said, “I’m just worried about you, Bucky. This is big, and I don’t wanna see you get hurt again. And bro, let’s get really serious for a second; I don’t want you doing this for fucking _Steve Rogers_!”

Everything snapped into focus for Bucky at that moment; squished in a tiny bathroom with his best friend (more than his best friend), covered in purple splotches, making jokes about Vaseline and boobs...it all seemed cute and funny, but they were really talking about serious changes that would affect both of them. They could dye over Clint’s hair to change it’s color to red or black, or scrub the bathroom sink with bleach to make it white again, but joining the team was going to change things in ways that Bucky would never be able to put back. If he did this, he’d be letting go of his safe, old barber shop, with its shaving cream smells, and rotating peppermint pole, and ordering himself a supersized hipster breakfast with all the fixings. Bucky had to make that kind of change for the right reasons, and then he had to stand by them. If he wanted to try the eggs, with the overpriced mango salsa, he had to own his choice.

He leaned back against the sink, scooching his legs forward so his body was wedged between Clint’s knees. “I'd never do something like this for a guy, okay?”

Clint raised his eyebrows, which made a long line of purple slowly drip down his hairline.

“I'm serious. It's a really good opportunity, and I think that I can handle them now. Before, I wasn't as confident and secure with myself. The shit they would say had really bugged me, so I stuck with the Brooklyn team; but I'm different now. You know that’s true, Clint. All the shit that I’ve been through...that _we’ve_ been through...it made me learn how to protect myself and I’m not gonna take it anymore. I literally give zero shits...zero...and I'm ready to stop hiding.”

Clint stood up in the crowded space, so he was chest to chest with Bucky, and sighed. He stood a few inches shorter than Bucky, but somehow his presence never made it seem that way. Bucky really hoped he was going to get to add Clint’s name onto his list of supporters.

Leaning right into Bucky’s face, he huffed, “Okay, I believe you. But if I have to get all ‘Roadhouse’ Patrick Swayze on some wet, banana-hammock-wearing fuckfaces, I'm coming in with broken bottles blazing! You hear me, cupcake?”

Suddenly, Bucky was engulfed in a giant bear hug; that totally smeared purple dye all over the side of Bucky’s face, and all over his arms, and on his shirt...   

“Clint! My Prince shirt!”

“Hey, man,” he laughed. “At least they’re both purple!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed the Bucky/Clint bromance. Next chapter will be from Steve's POV so you can see what he was feeling over the weekend too. Here is this chapter's "List of Pop Culture Awesomeness (so you know what the hell I'm talking about)": Movies: 'Cruel Intentions' is a 1999 movie about two vicious step-siblings from an elite Manhattan Prep School who make a wager: to deflower the headmaster's daughter. I thought the accidental parallels were pretty funny (especially the fact that one of them is named Sebastian). Starring Sarah Michelle Gellar (Catherine-naughty step-sister), Ryan Phillipe (Sebastian-naughty step-brother), Selma Blair (Cecile-the virgin). 'Strip Tease' is a ridiculous 1996 gem where Demi Moore plays a stripper and Burt Reynolds is a pervy Congressmen who likes to cover himself in Vaseline. Do yourself a favor and YouTube it. Patrick Swayze in 'Roadhouse'. Music: Prince, Olivia Newton John, REO Speedwagon, Metallica, The Cure, The Circle Jerks, Michael Jackson (God I love the song 'Human Nature'!), The Weekend, Justin Timberlake. Randomness: Noir Leather (is the most amazing punk/fetish/leather store in Detroit where I'm from), Manic Panic (best hair dye ever), old fashioned barber poles, Barney, Hamburglar, Murray’s hair wax/pomade (want a sweet pompadour? Try it), Toast is a real restaurant in my hometown which is really filled with hipsters and really delicious. Oh and please love TJ Hammond with me and enjoy my "breasts are awesome!" reference from Political Animals.  
> Please come visit me and check out my Stucky Drawings on [lucidnancyboy.tumblr.com]() and  
> [https://instagram.com/jessielucidart]() . Thanks for reading my little Cupcakes!


	3. The Synchronicity of Color

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have to give a huge shout-out to my beta:   
> [Lorien](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lorien/pseuds/Lorien)  
> She kicks ass. Please check out her gorgeous Stucky art on Tumblr  
> [drjezdzany](http://drjezdzany.tumblr.com)  
> She works so hard to help make this story what it is, and she deserves all the love for her generosity, dedication, and awesomeness.
> 
> Thank you for reading. Enjoy :)

                                                                        

 

Monday morning was almost a relief for Steve, and he was grateful for the relative peace inside his truck as he drove to swim practice. He’d left Alexander’s forty-five minutes early, so he could drive aimlessly through the organized grid of the city streets, to try to clear his head. Which left him here; turning down one-way streets in an endless box, waiting for Starbucks to open so he could get a coffee and a piece of banana-nut bread. Steve loved the quiet, the darkness of the early morning, and the calming feeling that he got from driving to nowhere. Lately, there had been so much noise...

The memory of shaking Bucky Barnes’ hand in the warm afternoon light, high on that Rooftop Kingdom, had made Steve feel uneasy the entire weekend. He’d slept horribly Friday night, with visions of his Mother creeping into his subconscious. She hadn’t appeared in her normal comforting way; cooling his fever with a cold compress, or hanging up his latest pencil drawing on the refrigerator in their tiny yellow kitchen. No, this time she had come to him as she’d looked in her final months; pale and weak, with Alexander Pierce standing behind her in the shadows. She’d come into his dreams with a look of disappointment etched into her dying features, and harsh words pouring from her thin lips. Why wasn’t Steve better? Why wasn’t he turning out to be the man that she’d raised him to be?

He’d tried to distract himself by wasting his entire Saturday hiding in the virtual world of ‘Call of Duty’ at Tony’s house. Tony never wanted to talk about his own epic daddy issues, and he never pushed Steve to talk about his, which made their friendship the perfect partnership of denial. On Saturday, Steve had been more than happy to let Tony think that he was just stressed about Alexander again, while they’d both let the hours tick by shooting at things in another reality.

Later, he’d tried to distract himself from the uneasiness in his stomach by putting on a good show at Ezra’s big party on Saturday night. Steve had laughed at all the right times when Tony had cracked a joke, he’d celebrated with boisterous chest bumps when he and Sam had kicked Scott and Ezra’s ass at beer pong, and he’d smiled his perfect smile at Sharon, then had dutifully grabbed her delicate hand after she’d suggested that they go upstairs for some time alone. But, after another tragic attempt to take their relationship further, Steve had ended up breaking up with her, and had headed ‘home’. The fact that he’d left a party to go to the worst place on Earth, really said something about how horribly things had gone with Sharon.

Every time Steve came back to Alexander’s penthouse, he did everything he could to avoid the man. He’d managed to sneak through the white marble corridors without running into him that night, but he hadn’t been so lucky on Sunday morning, when he’d been scheduled to go on display, like a prized pony, for brunch. Alexander’s assistant, Jade, had woken Steve up at ten o’clock sharp, with her equally sharp Vidal Sassoon black angled bob swinging sternly against her jaw. She’d shoved him into a crisp grey Armani suit, had made sure he’d looked fit for viewing, and had pushed him into the long black limousine at precisely eleven. Steve had managed stilted conversation with Alexander for exactly twenty-two minutes, while the limo shuttled them through Manhattan traffic to The Upper East Side. He had been instructed to “be pleasant”, “talk about your swimming and academic achievements”, and “for christ’s sake, don’t embarrass me, Steven!”

Apparently, Steve had “seemed distracted”, and hadn’t done a good enough job playing the part of dignified stepson, because at precisely one-forty-five pm, he’d been shoved full force into a marble door frame. By two pm, he’d had a bruise blossoming along his shoulder blade as evidence of his failure. When he’d looked at the long straight line of the purpling bruise in his bathroom mirror later that night, Steve had thought about Bucky Fucking Barnes.

Alexander was right, he was completely distracted.

Steve looked out his window, and realized that he’d stopped making right turns and was heading east towards the Brooklyn bridge. His foot felt heavy on the gas pedal, and he had a hard time making himself hit the brake so he could make the right turn back towards Eaton.

Sunday night, Steve had tugged a grey sweatshirt over his head and had gone to lie on his low bed. He hated the apartment; the coldness of the white marble, the monotony of the grey granite, and the harshness of the brushed steel had always made him feel alien. Last night hadn’t been any different. Steve scoffed, as he circled Starbucks for the fifth time, because who was he kidding? He _was_ an alien in this world! His perfect Brooklyn spaceship had crashed into that decadent penthouse the moment that his mother had fallen under Alexander Pierce’s spell. And now he was stranded on this planet all alone, and in order to survive he had no other choice but to put on his best upper class human disguise every single fucking day, in order to blend seamlessly into his new environment. Steve had gotten really good at pretending; so good in fact, that some days he wasn’t pretending at all.

When he’d crawled in bed, Steve had slid his body into his favorite position; the one that let him escape this harsh world and imagine that he was somewhere else... _anywhere_ else. His bed was the one place that offered him an escape, and Steve had shoved the frame all the way into the corner, so that it was flush with the floor to ceiling glass windows that hugged the corner of the high rise. The bed was only about a foot off the floor, and the glass walls offered a stunning view of Central Park’s north end. Lying in bed, Steve could turn his back on everything else in the apartment, and gaze out the windows with a completely unobstructed view. If he placed his body right up against the edge, he could press his nose against the cool glass and let his mind transport him to happier times.

He had pushed his cheek against the blue plaid flannel pillowcases...the ones he’d bought himself to remind him of the softness of his room in Brooklyn...and had tried to let his mind drift. Steve had only managed two deep breaths before Bucky Fucking Barnes had floated back to the forefront. For some reason, Bucky Fucking Barnes was interfering with Steve’s illusion and it was driving Steve crazy.

When Steve had flopped onto his back to desperately try to let his eyes glaze over, his jaw had tightened, and his molars had pressed down against one another in a slow grind. Sometimes it worked...if he started long enough at the antique white ceiling...sometimes he could take himself somewhere else. But last night, instead of his usual escape to a small place with creaky wooden floors and the smell of his mother’s vegetable soup, Steve had thought about the pink and purple jewels of Bucky Barnes’ golden crown, and had imagined them refracting their candy colored light onto the starkness of the ceiling.

It was five-twenty am, five more minutes until Starbucks opened. The baristas knew Steve by name. He started searching for a parking spot, and he _still_ kept thinking about it! Why was candy colored light polluting his mind? Why in the hell couldn’t he stop thinking about it?

At the party on Saturday, when he’d been drinking his second autumn-inspired craft beer in Ezra’s decadent living room, Steve had thought about the patches on Bucky Barnes’ jeans, and had wondered whether or not he’d carefully hand stitched each one onto the denim himself? His mind had provided him an image of Bucky Barnes sprawled out on the floor of a cozy bedroom, surrounded by patches, pins, and errant threads, while winding a sewing needle in and out of the fabric on those jeans. The light from the lamp had been too low for such precise work, so Bucky Barnes had been squinting his eyes, and pulling the fabric close to his face, as he looped the string in and out, in and out, in and out. Steve had been so distracted by the thought, that he’d accidentally dropped his apple flavored beer onto the fifteen-thousand dollar Oriental rug. Ezra had laughed.

Later, while Sharon had been sitting on Steve’s lap, tenderly rubbing the little blond hairs on the back of his neck, he’d thought about Bucky Barnes’ funny little plant, and had wondered how the hell he’d managed to haul it up that skinny ladder and onto that secret rooftop without killing himself? Steve had drank two _more_ seasonal craft beers to try to make it stop, but all that had happened was that he’d ended up laying flat on his back in some opulent guest room, wondering where Bucky Fucking Barnes had found a ‘My Little Pony’ t-shirt in his size? He’d pondered this great mystery while watching the ceiling fan spinning around in slow circles, again and again, while Sharon, bless her heart, had been doing her best to figure out the art of the blow job. When Steve had realized that the rotation of the fan was far more interesting than whatever Sharon had been trying to do with her mouth, he’d known he had to cut the poor girl loose.

He was just distracted. He was _always_ distracted. That’s why his fucking dick was broken! Steve slammed his car door and didn’t even bother to lock it. They still hadn’t flipped the sign to open, and it was five-thirty-two.

How had he broken up with his girlfriend, while she’d had his dick in her mouth? Well, he’d made an excuse about feeling sick because he’d ‘drank too much’, buttoned up his pants, then told Sharon that she was a really nice girl, but he had some personal stuff going on, so this just wasn’t gonna work out. After he’d walked out of the room, he’d called himself an Uber.  

All weekend he couldn’t stop thinking about the way Bucky Barnes’ had looked at Steve on that roof. Last night, it had gotten completely out of control when he’d been laying on his back in the middle of his bed. Steve had started running his hands through his hair, before he’d tried to imagine his body getting heavier and heavier with the gravity in the apartment. When he’d pictured himself sinking down into the safety of his bed, he’d pressed his muscles downward until he’d been completely flat, then had continued allowing his eyes to drift in and out of focus. He’d thought about sitting at Alexander’s right hand that morning, surrounded by a table of monochromatic suits and their interchangeable trophy wives; their mouths had been moving, and he’d known that he was supposed to be listening, but Bucky Fucking Barnes sitting on the front steps of the school last week had kept popping into to his head. There had been a woman with brown hair and a diamond necklace that Steve had known was asking him questions about school, but he’d kept thinking about the red bandana that Bucky Barnes had tied around his left wrist as he’d swung his feet on the brick ledge next to the steps. It had been tied in a bow. Why had Steve remembered that particular detail when he was supposed to have been smiling attentively with his perfect white teeth, and talking about his impressive swimming accolades with the horde of rich assholes?

Steve had even thought about Bucky Fucking Barnes, when Alexander had slammed his body into the marble doorway because _he’d been distracted at brunch thinking about Bucky Fucking Barnes!_

Jenny started pouring Steve’s black coffee before he even reached the counter, and Kyler was carefully putting his banana-nut bread in a bag. The whole exchange was done with head nods and minimal small talk, which meant Steve was back on the sidewalk staring at his black Escalade way too soon.

He hadn’t moved from that spot on his bed for the rest of the day on Sunday, trying to stop his mind from racing by playing endless ‘Cinematic Orchestra’ albums in his headphones. It had been an epic failure; instead of helping, their swirling symphonies had provided the perfect soundtrack for the confusion in his brain. When “To build a Home” had played, Steve had violently thrown his headphones against the giant glass window. It had been dark, and they’d bounced off the black pane, before they landed anticlimactically on the bed without a sound. Steve had been sure he was losing it at that point, because his mind had started screaming: Pointless...it’s all fucking pointless! To build a home? _What_ fucking home? This bed? This lonely bed, in the middle of this lonely apartment, in the middle of this lonely fucking city, in the middle of this lonely fucking world?

Steve couldn’t make himself get back in the car. He’d forgotten to add cream and sugar to his coffee. He didn’t know what to do and he was so tired.

After he’d started screaming at himself last night, Steve had known that he needed to get out. It hadn’t mattered that it was midnight, or that he had to get up at four in the morning...none of that had mattered in the slightest. He’d dug through his walk-in closet until he’d reached the very back; past the perfectly tailored grey and black suits, past the row of twenty identical, white, dress shirts with their perfectly starched collars, and past the strategically chosen Ralph Lauren polos that insured his seamless integration. Once he had shoved the components of his disguise to the side, he’d yanked out the soft black hoodie and the ratty black Vans that he kept hidden there.

Steve had felt his adrenaline spiking when he’d pulled the hood up over his blond hair and had bent down to grab the beat-up backpack from the corner. Whenever he touched that backpack, it instantly brought him back to himself and reminded him of who his mother had wanted him to be. It was something tangible from his home, and he’d held onto it like a totem for the past six years. Steve had slung it’s comforting weight onto his back and had clicked off the closet light. Following his usual routine, he’d snuck down the servant’s spiral staircase, through the pristine, white chef’s kitchen, and had used the service elevator to escape. Then he’d blissfully driven his truck, with the windows rolled all the way down to let in the quiet noise of the city, and had driven over the Brooklyn Bridge towards something that at least made some sense to him.

Or at least he’d thought it did. He’d come back to the penthouse three hours later, frustrated; his clothes and hands covered in rainbow colored stains and _still_ thinking about Mother Fucking Bucky Fucking Barnes!

When Steve had tried to disappear into his head and let the colors flow out onto the crumbling concrete wall, he’d flashed back to that same damn memory of sparkling pink and purple gems, and the golden reflection of a crown. He’d tried to make it stop with his usual ribbons of color and shape, but the only thing he’d accomplished had been coating his fingers with pink and purple paint, to match the ugly pink and purple bruise that had been growing under his skin.  

He was going to be late if he didn’t get in the truck. Take a breath...hold it...blow it back out. He could do this...it was just another Monday, and it was just another practice, and he was blowing everything out of proportion. Finally, after a few bites of his bread, Steve managed to unlock the door.

 

 

 

 

He chugged the rest of his black coffee, as he navigated Eaton’s dim brick hallway that lead to the locker room in the basement. Jogging down the stairs, Steve pushed through the door to see what the hell was going to happen.

Ezra was already there and appeared to be sleeping. His body was stretched out like a Siamese cat on the bench, with his chin length black hair cascading off the sides, and his long limbs covering the full six feet. He was wearing black sunglasses, which was status quo. Peter greeted him with a nervous, “Hey, hey Steve. Morning,” and Frank tipped his chin up in the air as Steve walked past. Steve was late getting here this morning and he needed to get into the right headspace in order to implement the facade, so he ignored everyone and went straight to his locker.

Steve was distracted as he slipped out of his khaki pants and pulled on his blue swim trunks, he was distracted as he rolled his tight shoulders back in slow circles to try and stretch out the tightness in his neck, and he was definitely distracted as he pulled his black polo over his head and shoved it haphazardly into his locker. So distracted in fact, that he jumped a foot into the air when Sam said, “So, he did it again?”

“Huh?” Steve turned his head. He hadn’t even see him come in, and suddenly Sam was standing here wearing his swim trunks. “What?”

Sam gestured toward Steve’s back, and sighed, “It’s a bad one.”

He leaned in for a closer look, and Steve immediately angled his shoulder away. He’d forgotten about it. How the hell had he forgotten about it? “I’ve had worse.”

Sam respectfully took a step back, because he knew Steve needed space. But he still said, “You need to report him.”

“You know I can’t do that.” Steve threw his white towel over his shoulder to cover the bruise and signal an end to the conversation.

Sam and Tony were the only ones who knew the truth, although nobody _really_ believed that Steve Rogers, star athlete, was so accident prone. Fury interrogated him monthly, and Principal Barnes called him into his office at least twice a year, but Steve had always managed to create a colorful excuse. He was a horrible liar the rest of the time, but when it came to Alexander Pierce he’d lied so often, that the lies just seemed like the truth nowadays.

Turning his back to the rest of the guys, Sam talked in a hushed tone so that only Steve could hear him. “You okay, man? After killin’ it at beer pong, you totally avoided me at Ezra’s, Sharon was a hysterical, crying mess after you left, you were freaking out about Bucky Barnes all day Friday, and now you show up with more of your stepdad’s handiwork?” He lowered his head and leveled Steve with a look of genuine concern. “C’mon man, give me _something_.”

Steve turned away, and started shoving the rest of his clothes into the locker. He appreciated Sam. He needed Sam, but right now it was too much. Pressing his hands against the row of lockers, Steve stared at the deep blue metal before whispering, “To be honest, Sam, I’m really not okay...but I don’t want to talk about it right now. I had a really rough weekend and I really don’t know what’s going on with me. Maybe later, okay?”

He sat down on the bench, and paused for a long time before answering. “Yeah, okay, Steve. But I’m here if you wanna talk...about anything. Got it?”

“Thanks, Sam.”

“But you’ve gotta deal with Barnes. He’s gonna be here in a few, you know?”

It was approaching six, and the increasing volume of the locker room behind Steve meant that most of the other guys were already there, getting changed and boasting about their weekends.

“I know,” Steve sighed. He slammed the locker shut and turned around...and right there, directly in his line of sight...stood Bucky Fucking Barnes.

He stood there in the flesh...in Steve’s locker room...looking like he’d just rolled out of bed; _literally_. His hair was pulled up on the crown of his head in some sort of...bun? Steve didn’t know what to call it; there were brown tendrils twisting up and down, and pieces falling out to frame his face. He was wearing fuzzy pajama bottoms, with polar bears and peppermints all over them, that were much too long so they were dragging on the tile floor. His black Guns N’ Roses hoodie was unzipped and exposing the skin of his bare chest, and his feet were adorned with light blue Converse, covered with purple splatters. In fact, when Steve really looked, Bucky’s hands seemed to be purple too.

Steve’s breath caught, and he immediately looked down at his own pink and purple fingers, as his mind supplied the word ‘synchronicity’.

His eyes slowly traveled from his own paint covered fingers, across the space between them to Bucky’s purple hands, and Steve imagined trails of light connecting them. Tracking up Bucky’s body, past the guns and the roses, and the hollow of his throat, his eyes landed on the giant pink bubble that he was blowing. It got impossibly bigger, getting dangerously close to the tendrils of his wild hair, before it finally popped.

Bucky sucked the pink gum back into his mouth, chewed it three times, then looked directly at Steve. “Hey.”

“Hey,” was all Steve managed to get out.  

Sam was staring at them with his eyebrows raised. “Ummm, o-kay. So, what Steve here meant to say is; welcome. Fury said to give you Devin’s old locker, which is over here. Number thirteen.”

The look on Sam’s face very clearly said, ‘c’mon dude, help me out here!’, which finally shook Steve out of his pink and purple haze.

“Yeah, here, it’s next to Scott. Scott Lang. Do you know him? He’s always late. Man, I sound like him right now.” Steve looked at Bucky Barnes, who was blowing another outrageous pink bubble and rocking back on his heels. Bucky Fucking Barnes and bubblegum. What the hell?

“I know Scott.  He’s not on my list of assholes, so...”

“Well, that’s a plus,” Sam interrupted. “So anyway, get changed out of your fuzzy pajamas and meet us on the deck in five.”

Steve actually laughed at that one, and was surprised to find Bucky laughing too.

After popping another huge bubble, he ran his hands over his pants like he was demonstrating their fuzziness. “Sam, if your pajamas were as awesome as mine, then you wouldn’t take them off until you absolutely had to either. I mean, these polar bears have really got the right idea. They’re fuzzy, and they’re chubby, and they’re surrounded by delicious peppermints!” Bucky adopted a southern drawl, and continued, “I mean c’mon, don’t y’all want a pair of your very, very own?”

“No.”

“Your legs would be _so_ much happier.”

“My legs are just fine, thank you very much.” Sam looked up at the big round clock in the center of the wall like he was begging it to tick faster, “On the deck in four minutes, man.”

“You’d be _way_ less grumpy with polar bears wrapped around your thighs!” Bucky shouted, as Sam marched up the stairs to the pool. “Fuzzy polar bears!”

A few of the guys were laughing around them, and even though Steve heard Brock mutter, “What the fuck?”, he felt the uneasy feeling that had haunted him all weekend leaving through his toes; the darkness sinking down to the bottom of his body and leaving a hopeful void in the space it was vacating. Steve imagined puddles of dark black, stark white and muddled grey oozing into heavy puddles onto the locker room tile, before snaking wickedly down the drain.

Relief flooded Steve’s mind, and he completely forgot about the mess with Sharon when Bucky Barnes popped another pink bubble over his toothy smile. He completely forgot about the darkening bruise on his back, and his horrible excuse for a home as he took in his happy peppermint polar bear pants. He couldn’t really deny it...something about Bucky Fucking Barnes made Steve feel...something. Something else, besides the disgusting streams of black and grey shit pouring out of his toes. And really, Steve didn’t give a fuck what it was; anything that brought color back into his life was something that Steve wanted to grab onto.  

“Okay, Bucky,” Steve started, with the first real hint of confidence that he’d felt in days, “Are you ready for this?”

Bucky Barnes popped another huge cotton candy bubble, tilted his head just a touch, and shrugged. “Ready as I’ll ever be, Captain.”   

*****

 

 

Coach Fury was wildly thrilled and massively pissed. Steve wasn’t sure which emotion was winning, but based on Fury’s increasing volume, he was placing his bets on massively pissed. He was wildly gesticulating and swearing freely, which was a level of emotion that Steve had never witnessed in the three years that he’d swam for the man. It was kind of amusing to watch Fury pacing back and forth, in front of the embarrassed and wet teenagers that he’d lined up in a single row of humiliation on the bleachers; it reminded him of prisoners lined up in front of a firing squad. The poor souls could do nothing but sit there and accept their fate; and their death sentence was being carried out by a man wearing a black Adidas track suit with the classic white stripes. The shiny fabric seemed to flow over Coach Fury’s body as he paced, like he had his own invisible wind machine to add drama to the execution. That, along with his leather eye patch, and the silver whistle bouncing back and forth on his chest in time with each angry movement, meant that Fury was putting on quite the show!

Steve’s eyes caught the big clock at the end of the pool, and he chuckled before looking over at Sam. Yep, his brown eyes said that he was thinking the exact same thing, and Sam nodded like, ‘oh yeah, this is gonna be good’, then pressed his tongue against the gap in front teeth. It was seven-fourteen, and the morning bell was going to ring in six short minutes, but Coach Fury was on one hell of a roll, with no end in sight.

“Uh, Coach.” Scott raised his hand half way up, then put it down, then put it up again. “Coach, um, the bell’s about to ring. Shouldn’t we, um, get dressed or something?” He put his hand down onto his lap, like the fingers themselves were embarrassed.

“Oh, you’re worried about the bell, Lang?” Fury swung his bald head back and forth along the bench. “Are all of you boys worried about the goddamn bell?” He stopped his pacing, and leveled each one of them with his one eyed stare.

A chorus of “no”, “nope”, “no way” and “no sir” were muttered at the same time, but Brock had to be a smartass and say something with his deep New York City drawl.

“Actually, yeah, Coach. You’re gonna write us all passes, right?” He elbowed Jack and chuckled out of the side of his twisted mouth.

The entire team sucked in a collective breath, and Steve glanced towards the opposite end of the bench just in time to catch Bucky Fucking Barnes rubbing his purple palms across his eyes, and tilting his head skyward. Steve wondered what must be going on in his head right now?

Fury took three military steps to the left, and stopped directly in front of cocksure Brock Rumlow. “Well, my my my, Mr. Rumlow. I’m surprised to hear you say that you’re so concerned about the goddamn bell!” His voice began an even crescendo until it was booming out of his chest at maximum volume. “Because, son, in my professional opinion; the only goddamn thing you should be concerning yourself with right now, is the fact that you just got your ass handed to you by the new guy!”

Frank snorted.

“Oh yeah, Castle? You think that’s funny?” Fury took another step to the left and refocused his gaze. “What I think is funny, is the fact that your ass didn’t fare much better!” Frank held Fury’s gaze for a few seconds, before lowering his eyes to the tiled floor and grimacing.

Fury was not stopping anytime soon, and Steve could feel himself blushing for some reason. He felt like he was going to lose his shit and fall over laughing at any second.

“As a matter of fact, _none_ of you so called, ‘first class’ athletes, except for Rogers and Wilson over there, should’ve even bothered showing up today!” He paused dramatically in the center of death row, and put his hands on his hips. “What’s the problem? You boys need a little more sleep? You need your nanny to tuck your asses into your sweet little beds, and feed you a nice energy-boosting homemade breakfast?”

Oh, Steve was dying inside. He wanted to smack his knees and grab his chest while throwing his head back with laughter, because this was so fucking good! Fury kept right on reaming them out, like the meanest drill sergeant at the world’s worst boot camp. Steve imagined drops of spit flying out of Fury’s mouth, and landing all over his fellow rich, spoiled, bratty friend’s faces, while ‘Taps’ was blaring in the distance. Sure, Steve was mad that his team did such a shitty job this morning, but this ‘Full Metal Jacket’ shit was so damn funny! Fury was now pointing his angry finger at Ezra...then Jack...then Peter...punctuating each syllable with a new target for his long angry digit. “If I knew that some new kid was coming into _my_ pool...” he pointed at Ezra’s sharp nose, “trying to take _my_ spot...” he shoved his finger right at Brock’s sweaty forehead, “you better bet your ass that I wouldn’t let him come in here and make me look like a goddamned fool!”

Steve ventured another glance at Bucky, who was sitting next to an obviously shaken Peter. Bucky’s eyes were comically wide and he was turning redder by the second, and he was working his strong jaw and sucking nervously at the skin of his cheeks, before he bit his lip and leaned forward to drape his elbows over his knees. Then, like he sensed he was being watched, Bucky slowly turned his head and caught Steve’s eye.

The look that Bucky Fucking Barnes gave Steve shifted in slow motion, from the wide eyes of nervous embarrassment, to the raised eyebrows of cocky amusement, and finally, to the heavy lids and slow smile of something else entirely...which sent a jolt of electricity straight up Steve’s spine...

What!? Steve broke eye contact immediately! Fuck! Holy shit! What? The? Fuck?

“This boy,” Fury yelled, and pointed at Bucky so quickly, that it literally made Steve jump. “This boy, right here, just made you all look like fools! And as far as I’m concerned he just earned Devin’s starting spot in the goddamned two-hundred meter medley relay, the goddamned two-hundred meter freestyle relay, the goddamned four-hundred meter freestyle relay, and he’s bumping Charlie out of the goddamned two-hundred meter freestyle!”  

“But that’s my spot!” Charlie launched his six foot frame off the bench, and shouted, “You can’t kick me out of my event!”  

“Yeah!” Harry, his twin brother, seconded. He stood up too, and took a step towards Fury in brotherly solidarity. “That isn’t going to happen.”  

Steve was reeling. The sight of the two brunet trust fund twins, with their perfect GQ haircuts, and their perfectly identical muscles, standing in front of Coach Fury with the confidence that being the richest kids at Eaton provided, made Steve’s jaw drop.

Sam muttered, “Oh, shit”.

“I make the decisions around here! And if you two wanna go home and cry to your daddy, you can go right ahead!” Fury took two steps backwards then rounded on Charlie. “You tell your daddy, that he is _personally_ invited to come down to this beautiful pool, and watch Bucky Barnes kick your ass in person!” The bell rang as if punctuating his sentence.

Several of the guys stood up, which Fury quickly rectified with Drill Sergeant perfection. “Sit your asses down!” He shook his head, and sighed. “Sam, Steve, Bucky, meet me in my office for a pass. The rest of you can practice moving faster by trying to make it to first hour on time. Now get the hell out of my sight!”

Brock grumbled to Jack as they walked unnecessarily up the bleachers to cross behind Bucky, making sure that he heard every single word they were saying. “Twink got lucky this time,” Brock sneered, stomping his foot so the board that Bucky was sitting on rattled.

Jack jumped off the end, and stage whispered, “I’m not letting some poor faggot take my spot.”

They were so busy thinking that they were clever, that they didn’t see Steve coming up right behind them. He stood a full three inches over Brock, and even though he was eye to eye with Jack, Steve was much broader. They didn’t scare him.

“Let me make myself _very_ clear,” Steve began, coming chest to chest with Brock. “That shit won’t be tolerated anymore. Bucky made you look like a fool, so take it like a fucking man. You wanna call him any more names? Then you’ll be dealing with Fury. He’s on the team now. Get the fuck over it.”

The second bell rang, which meant Brock and Jack were officially going to get an unexcused tardy. They deserved it.

“Shit!” Brock yelled. “Now I’m fuckin’ late! Thanks a lot asshole!” He flipped off Bucky, then shoved past Steve, while Jack just stood there glaring.

“Do you have something you wanna say, Jack?” Steve stepped forward into Jack’s space, so he was shielding Bucky from any more bullshit.

“Whatever, Steve.” Jack rolled his eyes and stomped after his leader.  

Steve didn’t know what he expected Bucky Fucking Barnes to do at that point, but he definitely didn’t expect that he would hop off the bench like nothing happened, and walk towards Fury’s office. When he passed Steve, he gave him a little shrug of his toned shoulders, before balancing easily along the edge of the pool as he made his way towards Fury’s door.

He paused for a moment, tilting his head, and watching Bucky’s perfectly balanced steps. His decision to follow in Bucky’s path, was like the Pied Piper himself had compelled him. He tried to trace the perfect pattern that Bucky’s feet had taken along the edge of the pool, and for a moment, Steve lost himself in the feeling of whimsy that placing his bare feet so close to the edge provided. Brock and Jack angrily shoved through the locker room door, and the noise when the handle bashed into the wall sounded like a canon. It made Steve pause with one foot in front of the other, as he listened to the loud rumbling of Brock’s angry shouting reverberating through the concrete walls. So much noise. Steve tried to block out the chaos and start walking along the edge again, only to be interrupted by a yellow sticky note extended towards his face.

“Here, slowpoke. Fury wrote you a pass.” Bucky smiled, as he dangled the little square of sticky paper three inches from Steve’s face, and waved it gently back and forth.  

Steve was hypnotized. But it wasn’t just the repetitive motion of the yellow square that had sucked him into its rhythm; it was Bucky Fucking Barnes. Steve could not get used to seeing him like this! When he’d emerged from the locker room and appeared on the pool deck at precisely one minute after six, sans peppermint polar bear pants, every single person in the room had frozen.

Steve had instantly thought of ‘The Breakfast Club’. Over the summer, Tony had insisted that the John Hughes catalogue was a necessary rite of passage for every High School Senior. He’d dramatically forced their group of friends to watch every single film during their usual movie night get-togethers. After they’d watched ‘The Breakfast Club’ (which was Steve’s favorite by far), Tony had drunkenly told Steve that he was, “Just like Andy! The Athlete! Emilio Estevez! That’s you, my friend! It’s like John Hughes built a time machine, and got in it, then blasted himself to Eaton, and saw you; Steve! You, with your Varsity jacket, and your blond hair, and your daddy issues, and Mr. Hughes thought, ‘this is it! This is my muse!’, then _got back_ in his time machine, blasted _back_ to the eighties, and wrote the penultimate teen movie based on your fucking life!”

Tony had insisted that he was Claire, ‘The Princess’. Something about how much they both loved sushi, and how they both totally dig the bad seeds. “If Judd Nelson was a chick, I’d totally bone him”, had been Steve’s favorite Tony quote of the night. And after another round of shots, Sam and Ezra had even talked Tony into doing the lipstick/boob trick. He ended up looking like Heath Ledger’s Joker on a bad day. Ezra had taken many pictures to document Tony’s face, covered with his mommy’s lipstick, and preserve it in the cloud for future blackmail opportunities. It had been a really good night.

Later, when the alcohol had been wearing off, and they were all falling asleep on Tony’s giant sectional, they’d had a healthy debate about who else matched the stereotypical ’Breakfast Club’ characters. Unfortunately, they hadn’t been able to agree on any other John Hughes matches, and had passed out with just ‘The Jock’ and ‘The Princess’ identified.

But Steve saw it now; they just hadn’t looked far enough. Clint Barton was definitely Judd Nelson, ‘The Criminal’. A tough guy from a poor home, who was hiding intelligence and a loving heart beneath his leather and spike exterior? God, that fit perfectly! Maybe Tony could present Barton with a sparkling diamond stud earring, in one of Eaton’s storage closets, as a token of his love? Steve laughed, and took a moment to appreciate the image of Clint Barton raising his fist to the rousing chorus of ‘Don’t you forget about me’. Tony was going to lose his shit when Steve told him!

He felt so stupid for not realizing that Bucky Fucking Barnes was ‘The Basket Case’! It was so obvious! When Molly Ringwald had worked her headband and eyeliner magic on Ally Sheedy, then had revealed her makeover miracle to the group, every eye in that imaginary library had stared at ‘The Basket Case’ in complete shock. When Bucky Fucking Barnes had walked out onto the pool deck at precisely one minute after six, it had been like John Hughes himself was hiding in the bleachers and writing this shit in real time.  

Bucky had slicked back his crazy mop of brown hair into a smooth tight bun at the nape of his neck. Without the clunky boots, the ripped jeans, the funny t-shirts, and the bracelets and pins, Bucky Barnes had stood there in his own skin, like a pristine blank canvas. The only hint of who he’d been in the locker room, had been the contrasting hue of his bright purple hands against his naked skin. Wearing just a pair of tight red trunks, Steve had watched Bucky’s lean muscles rippling like a perfectly calibrated machine as he’d taken a few tentative steps towards Fury. He wasn’t quite as tall as Steve, or as broad, but he wasn’t any less beautiful.  

When Steve had watched ‘The Breakfast Club’, with Sam throwing popcorn, and Ezra trying to get Tony to make him another fancy drink with cherries and tiny umbrellas, he’d thought that Ally Sheedy looked pretty with her ‘Princess’ makeover, but he’d definitely preferred the old version; the one that had dared to be different. He felt the same way about Bucky Fucking Barnes in that moment. Sure, he’d blend in perfectly at Eaton’s swim meets looking like that, but Steve liked the polar bears and peppermints, and the Nirvana patches with their dangling strings, and the pink bubble gum popping over a toothy grin...he felt that tingle in his spine again...seriously, what the hell was going on?

Bucky waved the little yellow square faster so that it created a tiny breeze. “Hey, Earth to Rogers, Buck Rogers, take your pass, Cap. We’ve gotta go.”

‘The Athlete’ blinked a few times and swallowed, before grabbing the paper out of ‘The Basket Case’s hand.

“Oh, thanks.” Steve shook his head and tried to get John Hughes and his time machine typewriter out of his brain. Focusing on Bucky’s blue eyes, he said, “Hey, by the way, you did great today! Good job putting Brock, and Charlie, and everyone else, in their place. They, um, needed to be taken down a few notches.”

“Good job holding up your end of the deal.” Bucky smiled a tiny grin, but it seemed to be held down with a hint of sadness buried underneath the corners.

Steve was about to apologize, or say something meaningful, when Fury’s voice suddenly echoed across the high ceiling. “Get to class! You can’t stand there chit-chatting in your swim suits all goddamn day!”

Whatever Steve was about to say was forgotten, as Bucky Barnes turned his back and trotted towards the locker room. Steve watched as the muscles in his back flexed perfectly around his ribcage as he moved.

“Later,” was all that Bucky said, as he disappeared behind the door.

Steve just stood there, stuck, while he allowed a few things to sink slowly into the yellow squared subjectivity of his hypnotized mind. If he really was ‘The Athlete’ (Emilio Estevez at his finest) and Bucky really was ‘The Basket Case’, in all her quirky perfection, then what the holy fuck did that mean!?!!! Fuck! His mind supplied the image of Bucky’s strong chiseled jaw, accented by the dark brown of his wet hair, slicked back…

“ _Steve!_ ” Fury screamed, and it was so loud, and Steve spun around so quickly, that he slipped on the edge of the pool. He fell backwards into the deep end with such an undignified splash, that Steve was sure he was doing slapstick comedy in slow motion. “Steve!” Fury ran full speed out of his office, and yelled, “What the actual hell, Rogers!?”

When Steve flipped the hair out of his face, then swam over to put his hands on the edge of the pool, he realized that he was still holding the hypnotic little yellow square in his hand. It was soggy and the blue ink was running across the paper, transforming into tiny trails of green, before dripping onto his fingertips to mingle with the purple and pink stains. He blinked his eyes in wonder as the word ‘synchronicity’ floated across his mind again.

 He smiled up at Fury, and chuckled, “I think I need a new pass.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

  


 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who is reading and leaving kudos and making my day with positive comments! You are wonderful! Here is the Chapter 3 "Awesome Pop Culture Extravaganza (so you know what the hell I'm talking about) List": Music: The Cinematic Orchestra (Seriously listen to the song “To build a home”. You will cry. I’m using it as additional internal soundtrack music for Steve in a future chapter and it would really help you understand his headspace. Movies: Mission Impossible (Tom Cruise is so weirdly hot in these movies, lol) , Full Metal Jacket (one of the best Vietnam movies ever made), The Breakfast Club: If you have not seen this movie, you need to watch it right now. The director John Hughes made the best teen movies in the 80s, and much like Tony, I'm insisting that you watch every single one. Here is the letter the characters write to the teacher who held them captive in detention all day Saturday: “Dear Mr. Vernon, We accept the fact that we had to sacrifice a whole Saturday in detention for whatever it is that we did wrong. But we think you’re crazy to make us write an essay telling you who we think we are. You see us as you want to see us: in the simplest terms and the most convenient definitions. But what we found out it that each one of us is a brain...and an athlete...and a basket case...a princess...and a criminal. Does that answer your question? Sincerely yours, The Breakfast Club”  
> Miscellaneous: Vidal Sassoon (the most amazing sharp bob haircuts ever, plus good shampoo). To see more of my Stucky Art or say hi visit me on [Instagram](https://www.instagram.com/jessielucidart/) at JessieLucidArt and [Tumblr](http://lucidnancyboy.tumblr.com/) at lucidnancyboy. Hugs!


	4. Shut up, Celine Dion!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to my amazing beta [Lorien](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lorien) for helping me to improve my writing (and my, completely, incorrect use, of commas,,,,,, lol). Check out her art on Tumblr (she's phenomenal!) [drjezdzany](http://drjezdzany.tumblr.com)

 

                                           

 

Daisy was staring across the lunch table through her kohl lined cat eyes, with a combination of utter horror and mild amusement. A ketchup covered sweet potato fry was frozen halfway to her pouty lips, as she snickered, “You did what now?”

Bucky couldn’t really blame her for that reaction. He’d been pretty much asking himself that same question all morning. When Mr. Kuzinski had written important Literary quotes on the whiteboard during first hour, all that Bucky had seen was, “Why did you do that? Why did you do that? Why did you do that?” He was gonna be so fucked on the quiz. It had been the same thing during second and third hours, and now that he’d somehow made it to lunch, Daisy was posing the question of the day out loud. 

Bucky just wanted to reach out and snatch her fry. Sweet potato fries were fucking delicious, and so much easier to think about than her question!

Clint kept on obnoxiously chewing kettle chips with his mouth wide open, and he didn’t even bother to swallow before revealing the awful truth. “Our darling Bucky told Steve Rogers that he wants to suck his dick with his  _ eyes _ .” 

“How do you suck someone’s dick with your eyes?” Skinner deadpanned.

“No,” Clint scoffed, shoving another handful of chips into his mouth. “Bucky  _ looked _ at Steve and telepathically communicated his dick sucking desires...by  _ looking _ . Jesus.”

“And how do you communicate that with  _ just _ your eyes?” Skinner never even bothered to look up from his Macbook for his completely ridiculous display of sarcastic humor (he wasn’t funny...okay, he was kinda funny). His glasses were reflecting the blue and white pattern from his screen, so he looked like he was in the movie Tron. He kept right on typing, as he said, “Don’t you minimally need a hand gesture, with your tongue pressed into your cheek, to get that kind of message across?” 

God help him, Bucky was never gonna survive this day, because Daisy  _ and _ Clint simultaneously gave him a very  _ unhelpful  _ demonstration of the ‘Official Blow Job Signal’; flicking their fists back and forth with the corresponding tongue-in-cheek dick motion. What fuckers. This was such a huge deal, and he needed their stupid advice, but they were acting like jerk-offs (literally). The sigh that escaped Bucky’s mouth was more like a full fledged groan, and Skinner cracked a little smile. Yeah, he was a jerk-off too.

The snobby, bitchy, mean, horrible, rude, nosy girls at the next table, started up their daily bitchy, mean, horrible, rude, nosy routine. It was always the same; they’d turn around and scrunch up their bee sting lips, scoff, mumble shit under their breath, then deliver their daily ‘you people are  _ so _ annoying’ look. Same shit...different day. But, of course, this demonstration of snobbery only inspired Daisy and Clint to go faster. If either one of them ever attempted to suck someone off at that velocity, Bucky would feel  _ very  _ sorry for the owner of that cock.

Buffy Clayborn, the leader of the blondes, rolled her eyes and made a bitchy little face, so Daisy mouthed, “What?” 

Since Buffy kept right on staring, Clint treated her (and the rest of their table) to a very special treat; he leaned away from the lunch table, gripped the edge with his hands, threw his purple mohawk backwards, and made a very intense ‘O’ face. Bucky rubbed his hands across his face, because he knew that look first hand, and he couldn’t deal with that fucking shit right now, on top of everything else.

“Fuck, Daisy, I just came so hard,” Clint exhaled, with a disturbingly realistic impression of post-orgasmic bliss. 

“Are you  _ serious _ ?” Buffy stuck her perky little nose up in the air, and swung her stick straight blonde hair over her shoulder, then scoffed, “You  _ people  _ are horrible!” The five matching girls around her followed suit, and Bucky just wanted to crawl under the table and hide...actually, no...he didn’t want to crawl under the table, because then he’d be thinking about goddamn blow jobs!

Clint stretched his hand over his shoulder, carefully avoiding the spikes that were sticking out of his leather jacket, and patted himself on the back for a job well done. Yeah, Oscar worthy fake orgasm, dipshit. As Clint wrapped his arm around Skinner’s shoulder, he stared at Bucky with a mischievous little grin, and said, “Normally I’d agree with you Skinner; telling someone that you want to lick their dick  _ usually _ requires more than one dirty look, but this handsome boy, right here, doesn’t need such savage gestures.  _ My _ Cupcake doesn’t need anything except his big blue peepers. Bucky’s got magical eyes, don’t ya, buddy? You’ve gotta show ‘em the look! Do it! Do it!” 

Always the King of Theatrics, Clint leapt up on the polished wood bench, and pumped his fist in time with the jingling buckles and chains that were attached to his purple plaid pants.  

“Shut up, Clint. I’m not doing anything,” Bucky moaned, then flung his open bag of Cheetos toward Clint, because seriously!? The orange puffy snacks (what the fuck were Cheetos anyway?) bounced off of Clint’s chest and scattered all over the lunch table, but Clint kept right on chanting.  

Bucky needed to escape to a land far far away, where he could hide under a rock...or under a mushroom. Maybe he could find that creepy caterpillar, with the primo weed, and just chill underneath his giant mushroom until Steve Rogers had forgotten that a horndog named Bucky had ever existed? He pulled up his black hood and silently willed Mr. Obnoxious to shut the fuck up...or to throw him a joint (preferably both).

The way that Bucky had looked at Steve during practice had been nothing short of lewd, which, considering that Bucky  _ had _ been imagining himself kneeling at the strong captain’s feet and slowly licking the water droplets off of his six-pack abs, wasn’t really surprising. But it had been  _ a complete and total accident _ ! There hadn’t been some sort of elaborate plan for Bucky to lick his lips and magically turn Steve to the gay-side; it had been an  _ accident _ … a very very very unfortunate accident...and now he was totally fucked. Day one on the Eaton swim team and Bucky had made it through a whopping hour and twenty minutes before he’d made a complete fool out of himself. Steve Rogers was probably gonna show up, at any second, and kick him out; Sorry Bucky, there’s a strict rule about ‘porno eyes’ on the prestigious Eaton team. 

He wanted to disappear, but hiding inside his cozy Guns N’ Roses cave and looking for cheshire cats wasn’t working. And it was only getting worse, because now, Bucky was being assaulted by not  _ one _ , not  _ two _ , but  _ three _ dickwads, chanting, “do it, do it, do it!” It was a classic peer pressure tactic (if you were eleven), and Bucky was ashamed to admit that it was starting to work.

Why the hell had he thrown his Cheetos at Clint? If he couldn’t get the dipshits to shut up, at least some Cheetos in his belly could have dulled the pain. Ugh, enough was enough...

Bucky pounded his fists on the table, and all of the loose Cheetos bounced. “Jesus christ, would you guys  _ please _ shut up and help me? This is serious!” 

All three of them froze with their immature fists hanging in the air, and they at least had the decency to look a little bit sheepish (well not Clint), but two outta three ain’t bad. Bucky shook his head and tried to hide a smile, because even though they were ridiculous humans, he loved his friends...like  _ really  _ loved them; in the way that kittens love strings, or that dwarves love gold, or that people love their smartphones. 

He looked over at Skinner, in his striped dress shirt and skinny black tie, looking like he’d gotten caught with his hand in the cookie jar, and Bucky did laugh. He couldn’t help it...

 

 

Skinner was Bucky’s favorite defector. When he’d bravely jumped the ten foot barbed wire fence that ran along Eaton’s social border, it had been a perfectly ordinary Thursday in December of freshman year. Bucky had seen him coming across the lunchroom, with his computer bag slung across his chest and a determined look plastered on his face. Of course, Bucky’s first thought had been, Great, another fucker on a mission to make fun of me for being gay, or poor, or whatever the bullying flavor of the day happened to be, but that assumption had been dead wrong. Skinner had packed up all of his shit and had been in the middle of his daring escape from his designated place at the top of Eaton’s Social Hierarchy instead. When he’d crossed that lunchroom, he’d actually been swimming across the choppy channel towards Bucky’s Island of Misfit Toys. There had been no plausible reason for Skinner to have risked getting turned into swiss cheese by the jock’s machine guns, or blown to bits by the Plastic’s landmines, but he’d still chosen to cross the divide on that perfectly normal Thursday.

Obviously, Bucky had been massively confused when Skinner had plopped down at their table on that December day. Bucky’s exact thought process had been: I like his glasses. Is he lost? He looks like Dylan O’Brien. He must be lost. Not ‘Teen Wolf’ Dylan O’Brien. Maybe he’s wasted? Definitely ‘The Internship’ Dylan O’Brien. Is that salami? This has to be a practical joke. Salami is delicious... (or something close to that). Anyway, the overall theme had been; why the fuck would a guy, who’s firmly in the same league as ‘Mr. Attends M.I.T in the afternoon because high school is beneath him, Tony Stark’, and the rest of Eaton’s overachieving elite, be swimming over to The Land of the Misfits? Didn’t he know that their National Anthem was ‘Born this Way’, and their National Pastime was watching ‘The Rocky Horror Picture Show’ once a month...in costume? Clint made a killer Riff Raff.

But Skinner had just sat down next to Daisy (no explanation given) and had pulled out his laptop and the salami sandwich, like it had been a completely ordinary move. None of them had known what to do. As Skinner had booted up his computer, Bucky, Clint and Daisy’d had a nonverbal conversation, where they’d telepathically agreed that it could have been a possibility that this guy had decided that sandwiches and weirdos were better than the sushi and drama of the Stark posse. So they’d rolled with it and had fed him some Cool Ranch Doritos.

One cold day in January, after six weeks of salami, turkey, ham, and Nutella, Skinner had invited the three of them over to his house (no explanation given). It had taken Bucky and Clint twenty minutes to get over the fact that his townhouse in The East Village was five stories tall, that it was really  _ two _ townhouses combined into one  _ giant _ townhouse, and that it had an elevator! Five stories and a fucking elevator! Then they’d had to ride the shiny glass elevator up and down at least ten times (because it was a fucking  _ elevator _ !). 

Bucky had actually felt embarrassed imposing his middle class presence on the environment; like his two dollar ‘Poison’ t-shirt might damage the antiques with its hair-metal cooties or something. But Skinner had never acknowledged his money, or the ridiculousness of having a working dumbwaiter in 2016, and had just acted like everything was status quo... just like that first day with the salami. 

After the novelty of the elevator had worn off, and Daisy had refused to go along with Clint’s idea to squeeze her into the dumbwaiter, they’d started to experiment with far too many shots from Skinner’s father’s well stocked bar. None of them had ever messed around with alcohol before; unless you counted the time that Bucky had stolen a beer out of the refrigerator the summer before ninth grade. He’d shoved the contraband into the bottom of his backpack, and had run as fast as his coltish legs would carry him to Clint’s apartment. Since they’d split the bottle, the effects had been a whopping disappointment. 

That sad introduction to alcohol had led to a dangerous equation. What do you get when you combine four curious fourteen-year-olds left to their own devices in a mansion, with zero parents in sight and one fully stocked bar  _ begging _ to be raided? Even though Bucky sucked at math, he’d known the answer to that problem right off the bat; 4+0+1= 4 fucked up dumbasses. 

Daisy had played bartender, pouring a puke inducing mixture of liquor into crystal shot glasses, while wearing one of the maid’s extra aprons.The combination of her little black baby doll dress, with the tiny white apron, had made her look like a naughty french maid (which had been perfect, since they  _ were _ being _ extra _ naughty). She’d poured, mixed, and had garnished everything with maraschino cherries, until they’d all gotten completely tanked. 

Bucky had learned many things about the mysterious Skinner that night: 

          1.  _Skinner talks a lot when he gets drunk...like, non-stop._

He’d gone on and on about his life changing epiphany on that very first salami Thursday; something about how Clint’s hair had seemed  _ so _ much more interesting than Amber Peabody, who’d been sitting on Tony’s lap and rambling about how smart he was. Skinner had slammed another shot from mix-master Daisy, then had fallen on the floor as he’d tried to explain how Amber had wanted Tony to help her with her Intro to Biology homework, how it had been  _ very important _ for her to get Tony’s opinion on her new Louis Vuitton, and that she’d been  _ so mad _ at Victoria Newman for buying the same purse...because that  _ bitch _ had known that Amber had been planning to buy it! 

It had all sounded awful to Bucky, so he’d understood when Skinner had explained that he’d kept looking across the cafeteria at Clint’s hair, to avoid listening to her insipid non-conversation with Tony. Freshman year, Clint had been channeling Kurt Cobain and had only washed his shoulder length blond hair twice a week (for greasy authenticity). Skinner had kept rolling around on the rug, talking about how he’d seen Clint’s hair, then Daisy’s vintage lace dress, then Bucky’s trucker cap, and had decided that he’d needed to get the hell out of dodge. Then, as he’d made his approach he’d seen the Cool Ranch Doritos, and they’d looked so delicious…

Skinner hadn’t made much sense as he’d drunkenly rambled, but the gist had been contained in one clear thesis statement. Rolling onto his back, he had used his hands way too much, when he’d explained his philosophy: “The most interesting people at school are  _ you _ Bucky, and  _ you _ Daisy, and  _ even you _ Clint!” The hand flapping had made Bucky super dizzy. 

The room had started spinning, so Bucky had collapsed next to him on the rug. Skinner had started slurring, and Bucky had blinked a million times when Skinner had leaned right into his face, and had yelled, “All these other peoples, I think, are  _ soooo _ plastic, like Barbie but stupid... stupider than plastic...and they wanna play Polo with Prince Harry and just be stupid... the stupidest plasticky Stepford Wives, and I hate ‘em.”

          2.  _ Skinner gets touchy feely when he gets drunk. _

Then he’d rolled over on top of Bucky, and had taken a ten second nap (which had pretty much fulfilled every Dylan O’Brien fantasy that Bucky’d ever had) before he’d leapt up and had scooped Daisy up into a giant bear hug. Skinner had unsteadily lifted her tiny frame off the ground, so that her pink underwear had hung out of the bottom of her skirt. From Bucky’s vantage point on the floor he could see that it gotten pulled up over one ass cheek and he’d gotten his first real view of lady parts...which had confirmed that he was one-hundred percent  _ not  _ down for the lady parts; at least her underwear had been super cute. When Skinner had set her back down, she’d wobbled on her feet then had stolen his glasses. Without his ‘Internship’ glasses, Skinner had looked more like ‘Teen Wolf’ Dylan O’Brien, and Bucky’d had to resist asking Skinner to climb on top of him for another ten second nap, so that he could fulfill his Stiles fantasies too.

But Skinner had continued his philosophical rambling as Clint had chased him around with a can of whip cream. “But  _ you _ guys... _ you _ guys are real boys, and girl. You guys are just  _ you _ ! You know what I think? I think, no, I  _ know _ , that you guys are amazing peoples! Screw off on the plastics, my friends, fuck the social hierarchy be damned, ‘cause you funny looking people are the juicy filling of life that I’m gonna invest my time and energy in! Like a donut!”

It had been a really rousing speech, and even though he’d totally exposed Daisy’s ass, and he’d looked like he was gonna puke at any second, Skinner had obviously thought a lot about it and it had made Bucky smile like a big drunk idiot.

          3.  _Skinner had been completely over high school in less than four months._

That had been the night that Bucky had finally figured out the real reason that Skinner had gravitated to their corner of the cafeteria on that perfectly normal Thursday. Watching him trying to explain why Bucky’s Misfits had been preferable to the Tony Starks of Eaton and their plastic cronies, had somehow made everything click for Bucky. A Tesla brain like Skinner’s, was just too damn smart for any of the typical generic High School bullshit. He needed to hang out with dipshits who knew that friendship was a hell of a lot more important than Louis Vuitton purses...and Bucky, Clint, and Daisy had definitely fit the bill.

They’d gotten in so much fucking trouble the next morning, because apparently you shouldn’t pass out in the middle of the sitting room with whip cream and puke covering the custom made furniture. But, as often happens when you get into deep shit with somebody else, they’d ended up as best friends for life. Bucky had suggested four-way friendship necklaces, but he’d received a hard no (he was still kinda bitter about it).

 

 

Daisy touched Bucky’s hair, twirling several strands around her finger, and the hum of the cafeteria brought him back to the present. The impatient looks on Clint’s and Skinner’s faces reminding him that there’d been an actual purpose to this conversation: The accidental eye-fucking of Steve Rogers. He’d much rather think about getting wasted and friendship necklaces than deal with his idiocracy, but he needed some fucking advice...

“Are you guys gonna help me, or just let me rot in this puddle of humiliation?” Bucky started, staring at them in a last ditch attempt to get them to stop fucking around.

“Sweetie pie, we're gonna help you!” Daisy smiled. “But, I wanna see this patented Sex Stare first.”

Of course she did. 

“Why?” Bucky whined.

Daisy giggled, and pulled up the collar of her faux leopard print jacket to frame her high cheekbones. “I need to see  _ exactly _ how you looked at Steve.” 

“So we can help you better,” Clint deadpanned.

“We’re like scientists,” Skinner added. “We need to collect all the data.” His delivery was even dryer than Clint’s.

Bucky knew that they’d  _ never _ shut up and actually help him with his very serious Steve Rogers situation, unless he just got it over with. Fucking fine...they wanted the Sex Stare?...well, Bucky could give them the Sex Stare! 

“ _ Fine _ ,” he groaned. “Gimme a second.” Bucky pushed back his hood and shook out his wavy brown hair, before dropping his eyes to the shiny cafeteria floor.

“He’s gotta power up the sexiness,” Clint whispered, jumping off the bench and sitting down across from Bucky. “C’mon, cupcake, give it to me.”

“Shut the fuck up, Clint.” 

Clint started rubbing his hands together in anticipation, and Bucky wanted to laugh, but that would only encourage the idiot.

Skinner closed his laptop (which almost never happened) and peered over the top of his designer Buddy Holly glasses. “Shhh, let the man work.” 

Damn right. A look like this took effort, concentration, and a certain level of horniness. Bucky had to summon up that kind of power from somewhere, and a crowded cafeteria full of rich assholes wasn’t exactly the most conducive atmosphere for lustful glances, so Bucky closed his eyes and tried to drift back to the scene that had started all of this drama in the first place: Beautiful Steve Rogers, sitting at the opposite end of the bleachers with every ounce of his team captain authority on display. The only parts of Steve’s perfectly muscled body that Bucky hadn’t been able to see outright had been his ass, and his hips, and his cock...jesus...those delicious parts had been hidden by the tight blue swim trunks that had hugged everything so perfectly. And the way that the hills and valleys of Steve’s chest had looked as the tiny droplets of water had rolled towards his waist...the way that Bucky’s dick had jumped when Steve had turned to stare at him with his bright blue eyes...yeah, there it was, he was getting hard in his pants already. 

Bucky took a deep breath.

“Oh man, he’s powering up,” Clint whispered, bouncing his oxblood Docs under the table to create an impromptu drum roll.

Bucky knew the raw power of The Sex Stare. He’d narcissistically perfected it in the bathroom mirror over the course of many, many years. It had gotten to the point that Natasha had pounded on the door and had screamed, “Stop jerking off to yourself in there! You’re cute, but that’s just gross,” every time that Bucky had stayed in there for longer than five minutes. He’d always ignored her, because perfecting The Sex Stare had taken precedence over showers, makeup, hair curling, or what ever else his sister had felt was so goddamn important. Anyway, he’d kept the bathroom door locked until he’d been absolutely sure that it was powerful enough to lure cute boys across crowded rooms. 

Bucky knew that Daisy and Skinner weren’t ready, but he unleashed it anyway. 

Swinging his long wavy hair out of his face, Bucky tipped up his chin  _ just enough _ to seduce them with his soft hooded eyes. He wasn’t at all surprised when Daisy and Skinner’s jaws dropped immediately, but his work was far from complete. Once Bucky had their full attention, he turned up the corners of his mouth in a honey drenched smile, before gently biting his bottom lip.

Bucky let a full three seconds pass, letting them appreciate the sexiness factor, before leaning back and cracking up. He couldn’t believe that these fuckers actually got him to do that!

“There, I did it!”

“Holy shit,” Skinner gasped, shoving his glasses back up his nose. 

He looked even more impressed than the time that Bucky had tried to juggle knives in Skinner’s basement. To everyone’s surprise (including Bucky’s) he’d pulled it off for roughly ten seconds before he’d accidentally stabbed Clint in the foot (it had been just a flesh wound...totally worth it). Considering that it had been the most impressive thing that Bucky had ever done, Skinner must be  _ super  _ impressed by The Sex Stare.

“Holy shit,” Daisy whispered.

“Told ya,” Clint chuckled, with a big grin on his face. “It’s like his superpower... _ The Deadly Sex Stare: guaranteed to immobilize victims with one slow lip nibble. _ ”

Before Bucky knew what was happening, Clint lunged across the table and grabbed his hand. Rubbing his cheek against Bucky’s palm, he moaned, “Take me now, cupcake. I need to feel your mouth around me.”

Yeah right, like that would ever happen again. 

Bucky yanked his hand back and threw a huge handful of Cheetos at Clint’s face. “Stop. You said you’d help, not make it even worse.” 

Bless her heart, Daisy came to the rescue by chucking pretzels at Clint’s face too. “Yeah Clint,” she laughed. “This is serious business. But for real, Buckyboo, did you practice that look in the mirror or something? It’s…”

“Obscene,” Skinner interrupted, typing furiously on his laptop. Oh, that brief Internet Intermission had lasted three _ entire _ minutes.

Daisy was staring at Bucky, waiting for his grand confession, but there was no way in hell that he was gonna admit how many hours he’d spent locked in the bathroom in order to get that lip bite just right. She grabbed Bucky’s purple hand, completely ignoring Skinner, when she said, “It’s powerful.”  

Clint snorted. “Powered by his penis!”

Bucky pounded his head on the table, amongst the cheetos and pretzels, and realized that nobody was gonna help him and he was gonna have to hide in his room and listen to ‘Rage Against the Machine’ all fucking day and ‘The Smiths’ all fucking night...and never see Steve Rogers (or anyone else for that matter) ever again.  

“Buckyboo, c’mon. We wanna help.” Daisy rubbed her burgundy fingernails up and down his left arm, playing with the stack of leather cuffs that were fastened around it. “What was Steve’s reaction when you looked at him like that?”

Finally, some genuine concern. Bucky peeked out from underneath his cheeto crumb hair and sighed. “He looked away so fast that I thought I’d grown a big gay unicorn horn in the middle of my forehead or something. I swear, I saw him mouth the word ‘fuck’.”

“I’d assume that would be a common reaction to that look. I mean, fucking  _ is _ the goal here, right?” Skinner snickered.

“So it worked!” Clint banged his fist on the table and the cheetos and pretzels bounced around like they were on a snack food trampoline. “I’m tellin’ ya...superpower!”

“Did he look mad?” Daisy slid her pinky under his red leather cuff and raised her arched eyebrows. God, Bucky was so grateful that he could always count on Daisy to  _ really _ help when he got himself into jams like this. Obviously, Clint helped too, but in a more of a ‘pizza and video games’ kind of way. Daisy was like a therapist; listening and offering sound advice (with a side of pet names and comforting touches).

She was still twisting Bucky’s leather cuffs around his wrist; overlapping them in different patterns and touching the unique textures. It was soothing, and it allowed Bucky to slow down for a minute and really think about how Steve Rogers had acted after ‘The Accidental Sex Stare’. Bucky decided against mad. 

“No, he didn’t look mad,” he started. “I’d say he looked confused. Kinda like he’s been looking since Friday... like he’s lost in his head or something. It’s weird.” 

“Sex pollen,” Clint stated, matter of factly, as he started eating the miscellaneous snack food that was littered all over the table.

“Be serious, Clint.” Daisy said, flicking a pretzel towards him with her fingernail. It hit him right in the center of his chest. “Bullseye!” she shouted, before turning back to Bucky and sliding her hand on top of his. “What do you mean  _ weird _ ?” 

“I don’t know. Just not his usual confident self. He seems distracted...and he keeps looking at me weird. It’s just weird.”

“But not mad?” She tipped her head and smiled a little.

“Weirdly, no.” 

“You’re saying ‘weird’ a lot.” Clint had finished shoving the food fight remnants into his mouth and was trying to steal Skinner’s chocolate chip cookie.

“Hey, get away from my food!” Skinner snatched up the cookie himself and took a giant bite, before mumbling, “And you acted cool?” 

“I mean, I tried to play it cool. As cool as I could possibly be sitting half naked on a bench, surrounded by a bunch of hostile jocks, with the guy I’ve had a massive crush on for three years freaking out after I’d accidentally fucked him with my eyes!”

“Oh, pumpkin.” Daisy reached up and rubbed his head like Bucky was five. “If he wasn’t mad, then there’s hope.”

Skinner swallowed the last bite of his cookie, and asked, “Hope for what?” 

“Fucking,” Clint snorted, then obnoxiously rocked his ass against the bench.

“Oh. My. God!” Bucky was gonna shoot one of Clint’s arrows straight into his annoying ass!

“No, not  _ fucking _ . Hope that he  _ likes _ you.” Daisy gave him a cute little smile and winked; how she pulled off winking was something that Bucky would never understand. Maybe he should start practicing that in the bathroom mirror too? Not that it would matter in the case of Steve Rogers...

“He’s straight,” Bucky said, matter of factly. “He used to date Peggy Carter, for christ’s sake! And he’s dating her cousin Sharon right now! 

Daisy shook her head, like Bucky was a total dumbass. “Get with the times, honey. Everyone’s on the Kinsey Scale these days.” 

“I love the Kinsey Scale!” Clint declared, snatching for the remaining half of Skinner’s cookie. He totally missed.

“When it’s convenient for your dick,” Bucky snapped, shoving his gross carrot sticks into his mouth. Lunch was almost over, and now that he was thinking about it, he was starving.  

Clint flicked Bucky on the forehead, and chuckled, “Didn’t hear you complaining.” 

“Wow,” Bucky mumbled. “Not a word about it for months, and today’s the day…”

“So, what’s your plan?” Skinner interrupted, as he snapped his computer shut and shoved it into its bag. He was always the logical one, and Bucky was the opposite of logical.

Did he have a plan? Was there some sort of standard ‘Post-Accidental Sex Stare Protocol’? 

“I mean, he did stand up to Brock and Jack when they started messing with me, which, I’ve gotta admit, was sexy as hell.” 

Bucky pictured the moment that Steve had stepped in front of him; using his broad back to block the view of Jack’s stupid face. Not only had it been a great view because his ass was six inches in front of Bucky’s watering mouth, but it had  _ felt  _ great to have someone stand up to those pricks for once.

Clint threw his backpack over his shoulder, then asked, “What do you mean?”

“Well, I was sitting on the bench, after Fury reamed everybody out, when Asshole and Bigger Asshole started spewing their homophobic bullshit at me. Then, suddenly, there he was... Steve stepped in front of me like a shield or something, and that was _ after _ I’d fucked him with my eyes,” Bucky snickered. “Plus, his ass was right in my face, which was amazing...so, I guess Steve’s holding up his end of the deal.”

“To put his ass in your face?” Clint laughed, pulling on the ends of his liberty spikes to smooth out the points. Bucky had done a damn fine job on those purple tips after all; he looked badass. 

“No, dude. To tell those assholes to shut up! Plus, Coach Fury put me into all the events that I deserved, so I guess…” Bucky realized that maybe this wasn’t as big of a catastrophe as he had originally thought. Maybe he’d been turning this whole thing into a Lifetime Movie, when it was more like a Music Video. “I guess, I’m gonna be cool.”

“You’re playing it cool? That’s your grand plan?” Skinner systematically cracked each knuckle as he shook his head. 

“Yes.”

Straight to the point as usual, he replied, “Not a great plan.” 

“Leave him alone, Mr. Pessimist. It’s a fine plan Bucky.  _ Playing it cool _ ...I like it.” Daisy started neatly placing her uneaten food into her vintage metal Strawberry Shortcake lunchbox. She had an entire collection: Holly Hobby, He Man, The Thundercats, GI Joe, The Smurfs, Wonder Woman...two entire shelves in her bedroom were dedicated to the eighties lunch box treasures. Bucky coveted the one with Skeletor, but she wouldn’t give it up, no matter how good his puppy eyes were.

Bucky glanced across the crowded lunch room (with its cafe style stations preparing sea bass with fennel, and seasonal kale salads with apple slices) towards the big table by the even bigger windows. That was the realm of ‘The King of the Jocks’ and his cashmere flock. The sound of Peggy Carter’s English laugh rose above the din, and Bucky tracked it to her bright red lips. She was perched on top of the table next to Tony Stark, wearing a blue dress with white polka dots, and swinging her red strappy heels in time with her laughter. If there was a leader of the girls at Eaton, Peggy Carter was it, and she commanded the Plastics with Regina George perfection. She also proudly wore the Eaton Smackdown Women’s Championship belt, to signify her victory against the six other perfectly plastic girls that had battled it out in the ring for the title of ‘Steve Rogers’ longest lasting relationship’. Bucky had watched Peggy holding Steve’s hand everywhere they had gone, leaving a constant trail of red lipstick prints on his cheeks, and walking down the halls with him for most of Junior year. Bucky had hated her a little for that...okay, he still hated her  _ a lot _ for that...but it was completely motivated by green eyed jealousy.

Peggy’s cousin Sharon, with her perfectly all American bouncy blonde hair, was sitting in her usual spot next to the windows, staring vacantly through the glass. She looked sad...which was  _ weird _ . Usually, she was a shining beacon of perfect cheerleader pom pom pep. Pepper Potts leaned over and whispered something in her ear. Wait... why was Pepper Potts sitting next to Sharon?  _ Steve _ normally sat next to Sharon! Woah...Steve. Why the hell wasn’t Steve in his normal spot!? 

“Where the fuck is Steve!?” Bucky yelled, then swiveled his head towards Daisy. She was staring at him in wide eyed shock, and was trying to give Bucky the ‘shut the fuck up’ signal, with the tiniest shake of her head. 

“Um, I’m right here.” 

Steve Rogers was fucking standing right fucking next to her! Of course he was! Play it cool, playing it cool, totally cool... 

Skinner dropped his bag back onto the table, and also did a horrible job of playing it cool. “Well, shit. Hi there.”

Clint chuckled, “Well, I’ll be damned,” then put his hands behind his head like they were about to reach the climax of the disaster movie (they were). 

“Uhhhhh,” Bucky said, gracefully.

“You’re looking for me?” Steve questioned, and he seemed amused. Amused? Was that the right word? Bucky didn’t know what the fuck the right word was, because Steve Rogers was three feet away from him, wearing a tight black polo (did he own any other kind) and a pair of ridiculously expensive looking khaki pants. Why the fuck did khaki pants need to be expensive? They’re khaki pants! Who cares? But his blond hair was perfectly tousled, like he was ready for a red carpet photoshoot with Harry Styles. How the hell did Steve manage to do that in the locker room!? 

Steve confirmed that he wasn’t a hallucination caused by ‘Accidental Sex Stare PTSD’, when he muttered, “Um, Bucky?”

“Uhhhhhh,” Bucky said again, just as gracefully. Well, so much for his brilliant plan of playing it cool...

“So, um, yeah.” Steve started rubbing his hand behind his neck, and Bucky swore that he actually looked nervous. “I just wanted to tell you again how impressive you were in the pool this morning.”

God, Bucky wanted to rub  _ his _ fingers behind Steve’s neck. “Ummm, thank you?” He could imagine the way the blond tiny hairs would feel underneath his fingertips and...oh fuck...his chub was turning into a boner. Stay cool! Fucking stay cool! He tried again, and stuttered, “I mean...wow, yeah...thanks.”

Steve glanced uncomfortably around the table, and Bucky realized that he was an idiot.

“Oh, shit,” Bucky said. “I’m sorry, do you know Daisy? And this is Skinner. You already know Clint.”

“Yeah, yeah. I mean I know who they, I mean...who you are. I sorta know Skinner through Tony, and I’ve seen Daisy around, obviously, but we haven’t officially met. So hi, I’m Steve.”

Clint spit a mouthful of Monster across the table.

“Clint!” Daisy hissed, as she tried her completely useless ‘shut the fuck up’ signal on him. Of course, he didn’t pay any attention.

Swiping his hand across his chin to wipe off the drops of Monster, he cackled, “Like we don’t all know who  _ Steve Rogers _ is? That’s rich, man.”

Steve stared at Clint for a few seconds, with that weird blank look (that was so fucking  _ weird _ ), then he turned to Bucky. It wasn’t amusement, or nerves... it was the same way that he’d looked on the rooftop, the same way he’d looked when Bucky had walked into the locker room this morning, and the same exact way he’d looked when Bucky had handed him the yellow pass. Clint was still laughing, Daisy was trying to mop up the Monster, and Skinner was back on his cellphone, and Bucky thought that Steve Rogers looked...lost.

“Hey, Rogers!” A shout echoed across the sea of bodies, and it was one of the last voices that Bucky wanted to hear. “You defecting to the dark side of the moon today, brother?” 

It was Tony Stark, bedecked in a grey pinstriped suit, complete with a maroon pocket square and an AC/DC ‘Hells Bells’ t-shirt. Only Stark could pull off a thousand dollar suit with a twenty-five dollar t-shirt. Bucky had to give him props for that, it was not an easy combination. 

Steve was still standing a few feet from him, except now, he was turning a bright shade of pink. Not sweet babydoll pink, more like angry sunburn pink, and Bucky had the overwhelming urge to hug him, and squeeze him, and rub aloe all over his pink skin. The jokes about Steve’s ass, sex pollen, blow jobs, and fucking went flying out the window. Bucky wanted to wrap them both up in his oversized hoodie, and teleport them far away from this stupid cafeteria. His brain decided that they should beam directly onto the Titanic, because for some undetermined reason, Celine Dion popped into his head (unwelcomely) and started belting out ‘My Heart Will Go On’ in her soaring French soprano. Bucky wished they could teleport right into the backseat of that car in the bowels of the Titanic, so they could hide from their opposite stations in life and escape together for one steamy moment in time...  

“Oh Captain, Oh Captain, wilt thou grace us with thy powerful presence today, or must we dine without thee?” Tony was standing dramatically on his seat, pontificating in a surprisingly well done Shakespearean voice that echoed across the entire cafeteria. Peggy Carter had her perfectly manicured hand wrapped around Stark’s calf, and she was smiling like the cat that ate the canary. Bucky hated the whole scene.

Suddenly, he could hear the sound of Steve’s breathing. He was pulling in long breaths and holding them, before slowly releasing them, and it made Bucky afraid...not of Steve...but  _ for _ him. Even though he didn’t understand why, when Steve let another long breath escape and looked at Bucky with his sad eyes, Bucky’s heart jumped. 

Steve’s eyes had betrayed him for a fleeting second, but The Golden God returned in an instant. Steve Rogers tightened his jaw, straightened his shoulders, then lifted his head towards his waiting flock of very expensive sheep.

Wait! Bucky got it!  _ Holy shit _ . 

He completely understood why stupid Celine Dion was echoing through his synapses! Steve was Rose! Holy fucking shit! Steve was  _ Rose _ ! Steve was all rich, and surrounded by giant heart shaped diamonds, grumpy gun wielding butlers, and snooty Billy Zane...but he wasn’t happy. Holy shit! Steve wasn’t happy! And Bucky was Jack! Bucky almost burst out laughing right then and there, because he was all poor in steerage, dancing like a happy fool in the bottom of the boat with the rats, and spitting over railings, and Steve Rogers…

“Well, hey, it was nice meeting you guys finally...officially.”

Steve Rogers wanted to learn how to spit!

“Why doth thou converse with the commoners?” Tony screamed, above the roar of the lunchroom. “Dear brother, kindly grace us with thy noble presence!” 

“For christ’s sake,” Steve muttered, before glancing at Bucky one more time. “Anyway, good job today.” 

With that, The Captain returned to his full height, and confidently strode across the center of the room towards the knights and princesses of his Kingdom. When Steve got close, Tony jumped off the bench and slung an arm around his back; but not before shooting a look that screamed ‘stay the fuck away from Steve’ over his shoulder. Bucky blinked, because did Tony Stark just tell him to back off?  

“What the actual fuck just happened?” Clint muttered.

Skinner stretched his tall body skyward, and said, “I have no idea, but Stark just gave Bucky a death glare.” He threw his bag back over his shoulder and adjusted his tie. 

“I think he likes you,” Daisy whispered.

“I think he’s Rose.”

Clint squinted his eyes, and snickered, “What the fuck are you talking about?”

The bell rang, and that was the end of that. Bucky didn’t want to talk about it anymore. He had thought that  _ he _ was the one who needed help with this entire weird situation...but he was starting to feel like it might be the other way around.

“Nevermind,” Bucky muttered, before flipping his hood back up.

He wondered if this was gonna end with him floundering in the freezing arctic water, while Steve Rogers floated to safety and revelation on a door that had been totally big enough for both of them. Would Steve pull a blanket tightly over his perfect undercut, then change his name to Steve Barnes, before galavanting around America and eventually marrying Sharon Carter? 

Bucky stood up (he was still fucking starving) and followed his friends towards the exit. When Clint put his arm over Bucky’s shoulder, all Bucky could think to say was, “Can one of you please buy me an ice cream cone?”

*****

 

 

The week passed with tiny Titanic scenes sprinkled throughout, and Celine Dion hollering in Bucky’s ear the whole fucking time. The first White Star moment had happened Monday, right after school, in the hallway outside of the art room. Bucky was lying comfortably on the ‘Art Couch’ (as it was called) under the Picasso and Warhol posters that covered the wall. He’d been brainstorming ideas with Daisy for their new photography project and his feet had been resting comfortably on Daisy’s lap. She’d been lacing his purple stained Chucks in some crazy new way that she’d seen on YouTube. It had been so peaceful, normal, and chill, then  _ bam _ ! Steve Rogers had interrupted everything as he’d sauntered by in his tight jeans. 

He’d been flanked on either side by Bruce, the genius science guy who drove the Black Porsche 911, and the stunning redhead Pepper Potts, who ran the school newspaper and was Eaton’s student body President. Steve hadn’t looked at Bucky and Daisy when he’d approached their peaceful couch, and Bruce and Pepper hadn’t even acknowledge their existence, but after they’d passed Steve had subtly looked over his shoulder and had given Bucky a shy smile. 

Celine had started howling and Bucky had seen Rose, surrounded by Kathy Bates and the women in their fancy corseted dresses and petticoats, parading Rose around the upper class decks. When she’d gotten near the railing, Rose had snuck a secret smile to poor adorable Jack, who’d stood on the deck below with his fellow steerage underlings. After Steve had disappeared around the corner, Bucky had decided that he should get a pair of suspenders. Daisy too. She could be his Fabrizio and they both could wear some boss ass suspenders! Bucky had to admit that DiCaprio had looked pretty sexy in them.

Tuesday morning, bright and early during practice, Bucky had once again thoroughly beaten Brock, Jack, Frank, Ezra, Peter, Scott, Charlie,  _ and _ Harry again...plus he’d almost added Sam to the list. It had felt fucking unbelievable, but the looks he’d been getting during Fury’s second round of hollering and swearing had been nothing short of murderous. 

Afterwards, Steve had pulled Bucky into Fury’s empty office...to tell him  _ again _ what a good job he’d been doing...and there was Celine! The weird flutes that signaled the beginning of that fucking song, had echoed off of the swimming trophies as Bucky had pictured Jack and Rose hiding out in that weird turn-of-the-century gym. Steve had smiled, but Bucky’s brain had been busy shouting, ‘I’ve only got ten dollars in my pocket’ and ‘they’ve got you trapped, Rose!’ so he’d just stood there like an idiot. Maybe Steve had been able to tell that Bucky had been thinking, ‘sooner or later that fire I love about you, Rose, that fire’s gonna burn out’, because Steve had gotten weird and had made a hasty exit. 

Fucking hell, Steve should’ve just said, ‘I’m going back, leave me alone’, so Bucky wouldn’t have been the only one sailing around in this melodramatic James Cameron masterpiece. After Steve had walked out, Bucky had felt a warning chill in the air, and he’d wondered what the hell he’d gotten himself into.

On Tuesday afternoon, after fourth hour, Brock Rumlow had cornered Bucky in the second floor bathroom and had threatened to, “kick his faggot ass back to where it belongs, if he didn’t stop showing off and making them all look like fools!” 

Jack had  _ helpfully _ been blocking the door like a total prick, while Brock had gotten busy shoving Bucky up against wall. It hadn’t been something that Bucky was completely unfamiliar with, but Brock had never gotten so uncomfortably close before. All that Bucky had thought was, why the hell was he pressing his body so goddamn close? When Brock had sneered, “You don’t fuckin’ belong at Eaton, you dick sucking pussy, so you’d better stay outta my way if you know what’s good for you!” he’d been close enough that Bucky had felt his belt buckle pressing sharply against his hip. Celine’s voice had risen up through the plumbing, and all that he’d seen was sweaty Billy Zane and his tuxedo wearing manservant chasing him relentlessly down the tilting hallways. Brock and Jack might as well have handcuffed Bucky to the goddamn pipes and gotten it over with.

Wednesday morning, before practice had even started, Steve had somehow found out about Brock and Jack metaphorically shackling him to the bathroom pipes, and not-so-metaphorically barking homophobic threats in his face. Bucky had been awestruck when Steve had come barreling down the flooded corridor with a huge ax raised over his head, then had swung that fucker with a perfectly aimed blow. When they’d stood in Fury’s office, Bucky had felt the relief and liberation that Jack must have experienced when Rose didn’t chop off his mother fucking arm, and Celine Dion had loudly announced that her heart was  _ indeed _ going on. Brock and Jack had ended up in his dad’s office, suspended for two days, and Bucky hadn’t needed to utter a single word.  

When Thursday had arrived, with its perfectly clear weather and the smooth sailing of Bucky’s first swim meet, he and Steve had smashed into the mother fucking iceberg. 

The impact was so colossal that Bucky’d had to choose to sink or swim; those had been his only two choices. His Titanic comparisons had lost their footing after the boat had gotten obliterated by the mountain of ice hiding beneath the surface, and Celine’s voice had  _ finally _ stopped blasting in his eardrums...but not before he’d had one final moment with Jack and Rose. 

After their ship had broken in half, and Bucky had found himself stranded with Steve in that freezing cold water, he’d known in his heart that something really special was happening. Even though he’d had no intention of letting his body freeze and sinking to the bottom of the ocean, Bucky had known that he would never let go... 

God, why was he such a sap? Shut up, Celine Dion!

*****

 

 

Bucky had to admit that it felt pretty fucking amazing to swim in front of a room full of cheering parents and students for a team that actually  _ won _ . The average crowd at his Brooklyn meets had been somewhere around twenty bored parents (twenty-five on a good day). Every single meet, for the past three years, had always ended the same way; his team would lose  _ everything _ except for Bucky’s individual events, and since Bucky had always hit the wall at least five seconds ahead of his closest competition, those victories had been meaningless (and boring). That, coupled with Bucky’s complete avoidance of every single Eaton sporting event, meant that he felt overwhelmed  _ and _ over the moon watching the bleachers filling to capacity with parents who gave a shit and most of the student body. True, hints of paranoia crept in whenever he looked up at the faces that ignored him, made fun of him, or were complete pricks on the daily (and their parents, who probably hated him by default), but he tried to shake it off and enjoy the moment for what it was; a chance to see if he really had what it takes to compete at the top level. 

Even the infamous Alexander Pierce was in attendance (with a huge bald bodyguard) and he was sitting on the far end of the bleachers with a wide pocket of empty seats surrounding him. Maybe he thought that he was the Pope or something? When Bucky was staring at Steve during warm-ups (because of course he was), he couldn’t help but notice that he kept glancing up at his stepdad, and the look on Steve’s face suggested nothing good. Instead of the friendly wave, or encouraging smile, that Bucky was used to getting from his Dad and Natasha, Mr. Pierce looked hard and cold. Bucky was hyper aware of Steve (because he was a stalker) and he could tell how uncomfortable his stepdad was making him feel. Bucky wondered if Mr. Pierce had anything to do with Steve’s sad eyes? 

 

 

 

The meet had been nothing short of a miracle, especially considering the facts: Bucky’d only been practicing with Eaton for four days, Brock and Jack were both suspended so they’d had to put Ezra in the relays, and it was Bucky’s first serious meet against an entire team of Zac Efron look-alikes...but they’d  _ still _ kicked ass! As the crowd had cheered, Bucky had felt really good, which had been a strange thing to realize. 

When Bucky had dominated the 200-meter freestyle, his hand had touched the wall a full three seconds before the Zac Efron in the next lane, and then many things had happened all at once: the entire crowd had jumped to their feet and cheered like crazy, the whole team had jumped up and down (except Frank), and Steve Rogers had wrapped his bulging biceps around Bucky in a very wet, very tight, and very sudden hug. Bucky had frozen as stiffly as poor Jack Dawson before Rose Dewitt Bukater had broke off his frozen fingers, and had let him sink to the bottom of the ocean with that mother fucking boat. 

Bucky had kept his hands perfectly still at his sides, and had tried not to focus on the delicious feeling of Steve’s wet chest pressed up against him, or the soft little blond chest hairs tickling his skin, or the glorious sound of Steve’s laugher in his ear as he tucked his chin over Bucky’s shoulder. “You fucking did it, Bucky! God, you killed it!” 

All that Bucky had been able to think was, Steve’s touching me. Steve’s touching me. Don’t get a boner. Don’t get a boner, while the blissful seconds of full body contact had stretched into eternity. Steve’s body had felt so strong, and his arms had been wrapped around him so tightly, and he’d been so wet  that his skin had felt slippery, and jesus...Bucky had started to think about other things that could make Steve’s body slippery…. Don’t get a boner. Don’t’ get a boner! Don’t get a boner!

Bucky had actually felt the change in Steve’s body when he’d realized that he was hugging a frozen statue, and he’d dropped his arms like Bucky had the plague. He’d instantly missed the feeling of  _ Steve _ , but he’d had no choice but to keep up the mantra, ‘Don’t get a boner. Don’t get a boner. Don’t get a boner’. He figured that the crowd would have stopped cheering if Bucky’s erect cock had decided to make its Eaton debut as well.

Steve had disappeared after that, and Bucky felt like an idiot...but since he didn’t get a hard-on in his swimsuit, he was still counting it as a win. He took his time getting dressed in the locker room, spending some extra minutes thinking about winning and  _ Steve _ , and how proud his dad was gonna be and  _ Steve _ , and how much Bucky really wanted a large pepperoni pizza and  _ Steve _ , which meant that he was one of the last people to leave the building.

His dad didn’t like Bucky taking the subway back to Brooklyn late at night, and it was pushing ten o’clock, but Natasha’s crazy dance schedule, combined with his Principal shit, meant that sometimes there was no other option. Bucky shoved through the exit and bounded down the steps...alone. It hadn’t been anybody’s fault. Swimming for Eaton had been a spur of the moment thing, so of course everyone already had plans. His dad had to drive Natasha to a dance audition in New Jersey, Clint had an archery competition across town, Daisy had to finish an abstract painting by tomorrow, and Skinner...well Skinner hated sports. So Bucky’s first ‘Chariots of Fire’ swim meet moment had been witnessed by  _ nobody _ that gave a shit about him. It was kinda a drag, but Steve...Steve had hugged him, so that pretty much made up for it.

The air was getting crisp with the first signs of fall, and Bucky flipped up his blue and white striped hood as he made the long strides towards the subway station. He was so tired and he couldn’t wait to get home and… fuck. Goddammit! He screeched to a halt in the middle of the sidewalk, pissing off the eternally grumpy New Yorkers who pushed impatiently around him. He’d left his fucking wallet in his locker! And his fucking subway card was in his stupid wallet! Sighing, Bucky spun around on his heels, then sighed again before he started walking the stupid three blocks  _ back _ to the school.  

He galloped back up the steep stone steps and tugged on the brass handles...nothing. The doors were locked. Locked! He really wanted to grab the handles and shake them with all his might, while screaming ‘nooo’ at the top of his lungs, but Bucky somehow kept it under control. There were still lights on, so he knew that there was a small sliver of hope that the staff entrance through the parking garage could still be open...if he was lucky. He  _ had _ won all of his events, and Steve  _ had _ hugged him, and his dick  _ had _ behaved...so maybe his lucky streak would continue.

Bucky charged down the steps (again), and pushed through even more disgruntled New Yorkers (again), before sliding around the corner and violently throwing open the stupid metal door. He had to run up the four stupid flights of stairs, that would take him to the top of Eaton’s stupid parking structure, and to the single solitary door that was his only hope. He was out of breath when he reached the top.

He slammed full speed through the door at the top of the stairs, and was flying across the roof towards the light of the staff entrance, when Bucky stopped dead in his tracks. 

Full stop. Full stop!  

Directly in front of him, across the concrete rooftop, Steve Rogers’ black Escalade was the only car left in the lot. Bucky heard Celine Dion powering up her dramatic voice, as he realized that Steve was sitting on the ground and leaning against the front tire.

Just like the lookouts that had been perched on top of Titanic’s mast had stared in horror and utter disbelief when that damn iceberg had come into view, Bucky just stood there in complete shock. Steve’s hunched form was catching just enough light that Bucky could see blood on his face...a lot of blood...and his shoulders were shaking like he was crying. There was no way in hell that Steve hadn’t heard Bucky clambering up the stairs, but he was just sitting there with his arms hanging over his knees, staring out at nothing.

This was it. Bucky knew it. Jack knew it. Celine Dion obviously knew it…this was the iceberg.  

All the weird shit that had taken place during this entire Titanic week had led them to this rooftop moment. It was probably reckless, or stupid, or maybe it was gonna be the best decision that Bucky had ever made (he didn’t have fucking clue) but Bucky made the decision to steer the ship straight into that icy mountain. 

There was science behind this choice (he wasn’t completely crazy). Long ago, Bucky had watched a very interesting Titanic documentary with Natasha. Some engineer had very scientifically explained that if the Captain had rammed into the iceberg head-on, the Titanic wouldn’t have sank. The real reason that all of those people had died, and that decadent boat had ended up on the ocean floor, was  _ because _ the Captain had tried to avoid the iceberg. Trying to turn the boat at that ridiculous speed, had split open the entire side of the boat as the underwater mountain dragged along the side. The impact had ripped open so many of the watertight compartments that there had been no hope of recovery. Bucky had learned so much from that documentary, but he’d never thought that it would have a real life application...or that the application’s name would be Steve Rogers.

Bucky didn’t want to sink, or freeze, or let Steve sit here bleeding on this roof, which meant that he needed to become The Captain. He was gonna change the fate of the boat in  _ his _ Titanic story, and try to save  _ his _ Jack and Rose by hitting the mother fucking iceberg head on; balls to the wall!

Approaching Steve like he was a wounded animal, Bucky  _ very _ carefully, and  _ very _ slowly crouched down on the cool concrete in front of him. He swallowed and tried not to panic, because Bucky had been right; The Great Steve Rogers’ face was red and puffy, and there were tears running down his cheeks. His nose was bleeding, and his right eye was already swelling shut and turning colors. There was a good sized cut above Steve’s eyebrow that was dripping blood over his cheekbone and onto his grey leather jacket. 

Steve just sat there, perfectly still, and stared at Bucky’s feet. 

What the actual fuck? Bucky had to stay calm, even though he felt the complete opposite of calm. He lowered himself all the way down and folded his legs indian style, before preparing for the direct hit.

Bucky scooched forward, until the tops of his high tops were touching Steve’s white canvas sneakers. “Steve,” he tried, quietly. “Hey, Steve, what happened?”

Steve didn’t make eye contact as he tipped his head back, so that his skull was pressing against the shiny black car. Then, he started laughing towards the night sky, and Bucky felt completely out of his depth. There were no lifeboats left on this boat, folks. When Steve bared his perfect white teeth, Bucky was horrified to see that there was blood on them too. What the actual hell? Steve ran his hands over his face, before dragging them through the blood and tangling them in his blond hair. A hollow thud echoed across the concrete when Steve banged his head three times against the car.

“Don’t wanna talk about it right now,” was all Steve said, before he finally looked Bucky in the eye. The tear that slipped down his cheek created a river of pale skin in the drying blood, and Bucky wanted to wash it all away. 

Steve hit his head two more times, before muttering, “Okay?” 

That moment confirmed what Bucky had somehow known all along; there was so much more to Steve Rogers than what you could see above the surface of that cold water. Hidden underneath there was an entire mountain of ice and Bucky had just crashed right into it. But he didn’t want to be anywhere else, and for whatever reason, Steve wasn’t pushing him away either.  

“Okay, Steve.” Bucky took a deep breath and made an executive decision. “But you can’t stay here all night, and you don’t exactly seem up to driving. Honestly, you’re a fucking mess, so you’re coming home with me. C’mon, gimme your keys.”

“ _ Home _ .” Steve let the word roll around on his tongue, before he let out the saddest laugh that Bucky had ever heard.

Steve lowered his right hand, palm side up, like he was presenting a sacrifice. Bucky took note of red blood that was smeared across the center, and on impulse he poked his index finger directly in the middle of his bloody palm. Steve’s eyes locked on the tip of Bucky’s finger, as if he were pressing the wound of a symbolic stigmata, then broke down into shaking sobs.

Sometimes you have to stop thinking about things and just do whatever you feel, without question. Bucky felt zero hesitation when he slid his fingers around Steve’s palm and gripped his bloody hand, asking permission to pull him out of this mess. “Steve, c’mon,” Bucky whispered. “Let’s just get you in the car, okay? I’ve got you. Can you get up and find your keys, so we can get you in the car?” 

Steve stared at their joined hands for a moment, like he was confused by the shape they created. Bucky was terrified that he was going to say no...that he’d rather bleed on an empty rooftop than let someone like Bucky take him home… but then Steve firmly squeezed his fingers around Bucky’s and allowed himself to be pulled up. 

“You know what?” Steve muttered. “I really hate this fucking car.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well guys, THANK YOU for the awesome feedback so far. We've hit the iceberg and I promise Steve & Bucky figuring out what that all means together in the next chapter. Hold on the edge of your seats, we're about to go down the big drop! Here's this chapters "List of Pop Culture Awesomeness (so you know what the hell I'm talking about)": Movies- Titanic is pretty much required watching or you will think I'm crazy, The Internship (I picture Skinner looking EXACTLY like Dylan O'Brien, ok? So sue me. lol), 2001 (AMAZING space movie with an insane computer-HAL and giant black alien monoliths), The Rocky Horror Picture Show (the remake they just released is great), Breakfast at Tiffany's (classic Audrey Hepburn), Magic Mike (yes please Channing Tatum), Playing it Cool (100 cookies to anyone who caught the Chris Evans reference), Mean Girls (those bitchy Plastics), Rudolf the Red Nosed Reindeer (because Bucky is so Misfit Toys it hurts). Music: Guns N Roses (Bucky loves young Axl Rose and that nipple piercing), Lady Gaga "Born this Way", Nine Inch Nails (still holds up), The Smiths (sad emo before emo was a thing), Pink Floyd "The dark side of the moon", AC/DC, Celine Dion "My heart will go on" (such a guilty pleasure). Randomness: TV stuff you should know about-Richy Rich, The Stepford Wives, Lifetime Movies. Old stuff you should know about: Vintage Metal Lunchboxes of all varieties! Oxblood Doc Marten Boots, Shakespeare (yeah I'm posh like that), Science-Einstein and Tesla, and the gayest of gay awesomeness "The Kinsey Scale". Find my bazillions of Stucky and Marvel Drawings on  
> [Instagram](https://www.instagram.com/jessielucidart/) and  
> [Tumblr](http://lucidnancyboy.tumblr.com/) Cheers!!!


	5. Frozen Peas to Warm the Heart

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have to give a huge shout-out to my beta:   
> [Lorien](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lorien/pseuds/Lorien)  
> She kicks ass. Please check out her gorgeous Stucky art on Tumblr  
> [drjezdzany](http://drjezdzany.tumblr.com)  
> She works so hard to help make this story what it is, and she deserves all the love for her generosity, dedication, and awesomeness.
> 
> Thank you for reading. Enjoy :)

                                                                   

 

Bucky Barnes was navigating the black Escalade south down Broadway, and Steve could feel the rhythmic beat of his pulse underneath the swelling skin of his temple. It fluttered in tempo with the throbbing pain in his head; a ticking reminder of time. He pressed his forehead against the glass as they drove from red stop light to red stop light, staring out at the hordes of tourists aiming their camera’s night lenses at the marble statues of City Hall and the striking neo-gothic architecture of The Woolworth Building. They were snapping pictures of moments in time; each two dimensional image a reminder that they would never regain that second...it was gone; the reality of the present preserved on a memory stick, or surrounded by a wooden frame from IKEA. Pushing the button to roll down the window, Steve took in the faces that had cameras for eyes, and sighed, because moments and memories weren’t even stored in people’s brain cells anymore. All of the important moments in their lives had been perceived through artificial lenses and filters of high resolution cameras, so that they only existed on Facebook and Instagram; synthetic memories of things never really seen.

The loud shouts of street vendors peddling their fake Chanel bags and pirated DVDs, drew Steve’s attention. As the wind blew through his bloody hair, he felt disgusted by the way that they were aggressively following the tourists down the sidewalks and holding up their cheap wares with impatient desperation. How these men could sell this shit day in, day out, and not see it...how could _nobody_ see it? Every fake leather purse that they took the time to acquire, every naive tourist from Pennsylvania or Michigan that they took the time to hustle, every single one of those meaningless interactions stole another moment of their precious time; and they were too focused on the minutia of money to notice.

Traffic started moving again, and Steve inhaled the smell of New York City through his open window: the rotting waffle cones leftover from chocolate ice cream moments, the crumpled wrappers discarded after onion and mustard hot dog moments, and the wasteful packaging of rushed Starbucks lunch-on-the-go moments...they all reeked like death. He tried to push it out of his lungs, but the putrid smell of decay and passing time had already pushed him even further down the rabbit hole.

God, Steve hated this fucking car, and all the wasted seconds that it represented; the infinite number of pointless moments that he’d spent pretending to be something that he wasn’t...moments that had carried him further and further away from the reality of life before his mother had died. Every time he drove this fucking car, he could see his mother’s thin frame in the rearview mirror, and he had to watch as her memory, and everything that she’d stood for, kept getting further and further away with each passing mile. Steve shifted in the black leather seat and winced; the pain reminding him of yet another moment that he’d never get back... another moment that he’d do anything to forget...

 

 

The moment that Alexander had cornered him between the car’s hulking front end and the hard edge of the brick wall, Steve had thought that the symbolism was verging on ridiculous. The only way that particular moment could have gotten any more ‘English 101: Intro to Symbolism’ would have been if Edgar Allen Poe himself had risen from the grave, picked up his quill, then unleashed his black Raven to fly in circles over that god-forsaken roof. Being trapped like an animal in the dark corner between the truck and the wall made Steve think that some undefined deity must have a macabre sense of humor; if they were twisted enough to maneuver his puppet strings into that particular corner of the stage...

When Steve had turned sixteen two summers ago, he’d asked Alexander for something small and practical like a Prius. What he’d gotten instead was a top of the line ninety-three thousand dollar Cadillac Escalade wrapped up with a giant silver bow, and a host of eager photographers ready to capture the disingenuous birthday presentation. Steve had smiled politely, and had let Alexander put his arm around his shoulder while the cameras had snapped and flashed. His cheeks had started hurting from the fake smile, because even at sixteen, Steve had known that the fucking car had been just another piece to enhance the realism of his elaborate daily costume.

After the swim meet, the taillights of the exiting cars had been bathing the rooftop in red when Alexander had cornered Steve in between his two options in life. The cool black metal was on his right, and the rough brick was on his left, and as he backed into that impossible corner Steve saw black feathers swooping towards him from the silence of the night sky. Poe had arrived. The second that the Raven’s silhouette appeared, Steve realized that he was really and truly losing it...and he didn’t care.

When Pierce landed the first punch to his ribs, Steve laughed in his face. Not because there was anything funny about the pain shooting through his torso towards his spine, but because a second raven had landed on the top of the fucking roof of the car, and it was sitting right next to Steve and staring at him with its black beady eyes. Laughing, of course, made Alexander double his efforts, and he used his shoulder to shove Steve face first into the cold black metal of the truck. He could feel the skin above his eye split open when his forehead slammed against the door handle, and Steve laughed even more as the blood starting spilling down his face. Allowing his body to go slack, he slid down the car when the rooftop started spinning and tilting towards the left. On his way to the ground, he noticed that the metal had started undulating in strange dark puddles that were absorbing every ounce of light. Edgar Allen Poe must have opened a black hole with his pen in order to symbolically jam the gravity of Steve’s role as dutiful stepson...with all of its rigorous demands to uphold Pierce’s reputation...right up Steve’s fucking ass. Nobody ever said that Poe was subtle.

Alexander threw one last brutal punch that hit Steve squarely across his eye socket and nose, and as the drops of blood sprayed onto the brick wall beside him in slow motion, Steve was overcome by the dark thought that the old crumbled wall...with its four story drop to the city sidewalk below...might be the better option. The Ravens had hunkered down inside of Steve’s head, the ink from their feathers contaminating his thoughts, and for the first time he seriously contemplated making the jump.

It would be so easy...

Every cell in Steve’s body was screaming for him to get up off the fucking ground and annihilate Alexander’s smug face with his fists, but his passivity was another critical piece of the facade. If he threw off the costume, and stopped playing the part, he’d have _nothing_ : no money, nowhere to live, no way to graduate from Eaton, no way to earn a swimming scholarship, and no chance to go to college.

Nothing.

So, while the hulking bodyguard stood watch at the door, Steve pressed his body back into that impossible corner and allowed Alexander Pierce to do his worst...and he chose to take it.

As another blow hit home on his ribcage, Steve let the irony of the whole sad story sink in: Alexander was drawing blood because Steve had _won_ ...he just didn’t win by _enough_. The blood trails started running down his neck and snaking underneath his collar, rivers of red unleashed because of his unforgivable crime: Steve had won the individual breaststroke by one second, and that single second, that had separated winning and losing, had ticked by too closely in time to meet the standards of Mr. Alexander Pierce. There was one more brutal slap across Steve’s face before the monster was finally finished unleashing his irrational rage and disappeared into his black sedan. The red tail lights made the blood on the brick wall disappear, and Steve hit the back of his head against the fucking car as he imagined Alexander smashing in the bones of his face with a vintage pocket watch.

The ravens were perched on top of Steve’s shoulders, digging their claws into his bloody leather jacket, and he couldn’t stop himself from laughing.  

 

 

Now, Steve was buckled into the passenger seat of the truck that he hated, with Bucky Barnes behind the wheel (which was even crazier than the ravens). When the familiar noise of the truck’s wheels started thumping over the joints of the Brooklyn Bridge, he realized that Bucky had finally reached Steve’s late night escape route. Counting each bump in time with his pulse, Steve stared down at the East River and let his hand hang out the window. Every time that he’d managed to escape in the middle of the night, with his color filled backpack, he had always counted the musical rhythm of the bridge. Thirty-seven bumps to leave the island of Manhattan behind to attempt to make some moments count. Thirty-seven bumps to create something tangible. Even though Steve’s organic shapes and drips of colors were fleeting, at least they existed in the three-dimensional world.

The thirty-seven bumps felt different with Bucky Fucking Barnes in the driver’s seat. Could Bucky feel the cadence of the road and the marked difference in the air, as he crossed the bridge towards his home every day? Did he dread the forty-nine bumps that took him back to Manhattan, like Steve did? As the car bounced over bump thirty-three, Steve turned to look at the boy who was taking him somewhere. He didn’t know where they were going, and he honestly didn’t care...he just felt relieved that it was somewhere else.

Steve studied Bucky’s profile, and he could tell by the focused squint of his eyes and white-knuckle grip of his hands on the steering wheel that he was really concentrating on driving the fucking truck through the narrowing streets. The stereo was blasting the newest soundtrack by Trent Reznor and Atticus Ross from the documentary ‘Before the Flood’. Its moody electronic swirls rolled across Steve’s body, and he felt like he was peacefully floating underwater with rays from the sun diluting in the water around him. Maybe it was because the adrenaline was wearing off and the only way to escape the pain was to get lost in the music and the waves...or, maybe it was because the freaked out kid driving Steve towards the unknown made him feel calm. He didn’t know...so he just floated in the diffused light of the ocean.

Bucky, surprisingly, hadn’t said a word about Steve’s choice of music, and had let it continue blasting at full volume after he’d started the car. Steve always made sure that he immediately switched the playlists from the emotional notes of Mogwai, or the electronic rhythms of Radiohead, to something generic as soon as anyone else got in the car; disingenuously pulling up Drake or Calvin Harris instead. But, on this chilly dark night, in that particular moment, Steve had been too tired to pretend.

The street lights were reflecting and refracting through the windshield, transforming Bucky’s profile into a vibrating silhouette, and Steve was completely captivated by his shadowed form. His dark brown hair was still slicked back into a tight bun at the nape of his neck, and he was wearing a blue and white striped hoodie that had brown fur peeking out around the edge of the hood. He looked soft and reminded Steve of a stuffed lion tucked in the corner of his bed, or one of the Muppets that he’d watched on television when he was a kid in his own Brooklyn apartment. He’d always loved The Muppets, and Steve had the sudden urge to reach across the car and gently pull the rubber band out of Bucky’s hair. He wanted to set the long brown waves free, so that they could mingle with the short brown Muppet fur on his hood.

Bucky Barnes glanced at him, with the worried button eyes of a cherished fuzzy toy, and Steve finally felt like he was in a moment worth living.

*****

 

 

Driving this car was like driving a fucking spaceship! Bucky didn’t drive that much anyway, and he _definitely_ didn’t drive ‘Pimp My Car’ Escalades on the regular, so it had taken him at least five fucking minutes to figure out how to even turn the damn thing on! And that didn’t count the time that it had taken to figure out which button (out of the twelve zillion options) had been the right one to move the stupid mirrors. In frustration, he’d started hitting random buttons and turning random knobs, which had meant that he’d needed to spend _another_ three minutes figuring out which button he’d had to push to stop his ass from burning off. Apparently, he’d somehow switched on the seat heaters, whose temperature had rivaled the atomic heat from the sun. All that was _before_ he’d tried to figure out how to put the fucking thing in drive. By the time he’d been ready to navigate the hulking mass of the very expensive spaceship through the tiny spaces of New York City traffic, he’d been so fucking frustrated that he’d felt like punching the steering wheel. But there had been even more fucking buttons on the wheel, and he couldn’t take the risk, so he’d growled instead. When he’d finally turned out into traffic, Bucky’d had no idea how the hell he was gonna get this thing home without running over pedestrians, garbage cans, stray cats, horse drawn carriages, construction workers, stop signs, and every other car on the road.

Steve had been zero help.

Since Bucky had heroically gotten him to stand up, then had awkwardly strapped him into the passenger seat (legitimately buckled the seatbelt), Steve had muttered only five cryptic words: “I hate this fucking car.”

Well, Bucky could certainly understand that sentiment, because he was a nervous mess just trying not to run into the yellow taxis that were closing in on all sides. After he’d finally figured out that he had to push yet _another_ button to start the engine, the music that had poured out of the bass heavy sound system had taken him totally by surprise. He didn’t know what kind of jams he’d expected to be on Steve Roger’s stereo, but it definitely hadn’t been the sad, moody, electronic soundscape that was currently washing over them at full volume. Steve was staring out the window like a zombie, with blood still oozing everywhere and dripping down the front of his coat, which meant Bucky wasn’t about to ask him why he was listening to something so damn cool. It would be a pretty dick move to say, ‘Hey Steve, I thought you were more of a Drake kinda guy’, at a time like this, so he’d let it play and had kept his mouth shut. With each new song, he felt like he was learning something else new and interesting about Steve Rogers.

Bucky’d had to call his Dad to explain why he was bringing home his personal version of a stray cat: the bleeding, nonverbal, whiskerless captain of the swim team. It had taken a lot of convincing, but Bucky had managed to get Phil to agree to be a _dad_ right now, not the Principal. He still didn’t know what had happened to Steve after the meet, or what had caused the dark purple bruise on his back that he’d noticed Monday morning, but he wasn’t an idiot, and neither was his dad. Principal Barnes had to report any suspicion of abuse, which meant bringing Steve Rogers home was gonna put them all in a very sticky situation.

Taking his eyes of off the road for a fraction of a second, he glanced over at Steve, and Bucky had no doubt that he’d made the _right_ decision. The lost look on Steve’s face (the one that Bucky was already growing familiar with) had morphed into something much, much worse. His expression had shifted after they’d crossed the bridge, and now, as they got closer to home, Steve’s face was completely blank. Bucky’s beautiful crush, normally so strong, looked...gone. And jesus christ, that scared him more than the blood.

They passed Anthony’s, and he suddenly felt Steve staring at him. It was the first time that he’d looked at Bucky since he’d tried to figure out how to pull the seatbelt across Steve’s lap without getting blood all over himself, or sticking his face in Steve’s crotch (he’d failed at both). Now, two blocks from home, Steve slowly leaned his head back against the leather seat and sighed, with his face still angled in Bucky’s direction. Bucky didn’t know how to describe his expression, but he knew what his heart was telling him to do...

Without thinking, purely driven by instinct and the sudden overwhelming desire to comfort, Bucky carefully put his hand on Steve’s thigh...

How that moment in history unfolded was probably something that Bucky would ponder in great detail for years to come (because it was loony bin crazy). The sounds of sparse violins and repetitive keyboard melodies hovered in the air as time slowed down; making each action and reaction seem like its own little cut in a Foreign Arthouse Film. Bucky knew, that whenever he would think back on the scene, he’d always imagine himself in the dual role of French director (wearing a black beret, sitting in his director’s chair, and framing each scene with complete indie devotion) _and_ in the lead role of freaked out gay teenager.

 

-Establishing shot: _Bucky reaches over the center counsel and puts his hand on Steve's thigh, before saying, “We’re almost home.”_

-Cut to Bucky’s face: _emotional shift, as he realizes that his hand is resting on Steve Rogers’ strong, muscular, beautiful thigh (motivation: oh god, why was he thinking that right now!? So inappropriate, jesus!)_

-Zoom in: _Bucky grows angry at himself for loving the feeling of Steve's thigh in such a serious moment._

-Cut to Steve looking down at Bucky's hand: _He pauses with no expression on his face._

 _-_ Quick cut: _Bucky sees him looking at his hand and panics, jerking it away quickly and offering stammering apologies._

-Wider shot: _Steve looks Bucky in the eye, and his breathing increases._

 _-_ Hold the wide shot:  _Their eyes remain locked (insert swelling soundtrack)._

-Cut to Steve: _He reaches out and grabs Bucky's hand again, pulling it towards him and returning it to the exact same spot on his thigh. This time he leaves his own hand resting on top (romantic theme rises in the score)._

-Closing shot: _Steve looks back out the passenger window while Bucky, in shock, continues driving with their hands intertwined._

\-  Scene. 

 

It was the perfect indie moment, and it made him realize that not only would he be a kick ass director (James Cameron could eat his heart out), but that Bucky and Steve just experienced a real life “I’ll never let go” moment. There wasn’t any overblown Hollywood script, no fancy costumes, no dramatic screenplay, and no _goddamned Titanic_!

Steve held his hand as they turned the last corner towards home, and Bucky allowed himself to enjoy his little movie. He squeezed Steve’s strong thigh, and prayed for a happy ending.

*****

 

 

Steve had been busy picturing Bucky as a brown cuddly stuffed Muppet when something magical had happened. The black metal and leather of the Escalade had started morphing and transforming into a thick emerald jungle, and Steve had become Max from ‘Where the Wild Things Are’; his new cuddly monster friend yanking him against his soft, furry body in a perfect world where he could be himself, Wild Rumpus and all.

He hadn’t even seen Bucky move his hand, but he certainly felt it when he gently placed it on his thigh and squeezed. The instant feeling of warmth and comfort that had coursed up his leg felt like a ray of sunshine had burned through the dark clouds to warm his very soul. Pausing, he wondered when he’d crossed the stormy grey ocean to reach the lush, humid air of The Land of the Wild Things? Had it been the bridge? Or the familiarity of the neighborhoods as they crossed into Brooklyn?

Bucky’s hand on his thigh took Steve somewhere far away, where hand-made drums pounded throughout the night, and giant bonfires shot glowing orange sparks towards the stars. Staring at his fingers, he felt like his skin was suddenly enveloped by soft white footie pajamas; a new costume that actually revealed his true self.

Unlike Max, Steve couldn’t picture _ever_ wanting to leave the warmth of the jungle to return ‘home’ for a hot supper. He knew that the hope for a bowl of steaming hot vegetable soup, or freshly sliced turkey slathered with homemade gravy, had died in a cancer ward a long time ago. The feeling of heat that was expanding from the point of contact, and pulsing through every cell in his body, was the closest thing to home that Steve had felt in six years.

Staring down at the long pale fingers, with a gleaming silver ring decorating each one, Steve realized that Bucky Fucking Barnes had just given him the most authentic, caring, physical touch that he'd felt since his mom died. He took a huge breath, because he felt the tears coming again, and he almost felt safe enough to unleash them.

But suddenly Bucky jerked his hand away, and the tiny piece of home was stripped away. No...

Bucky was back to gripping the wheel and he looked terrified. Was it because he’d touched Steve without permission?...or maybe that he’d touched Steve at all?

The tight line of his lips, and the wrinkles on his forehead made Steve realize that, for some unknown reason, Bucky Fucking Barnes understood more about his feelings than any of his friends. Even Sam wasn’t so in tune with him, or so sensitive to how _Steve_ was really feeling.

In that slow motion moment, just like the horrible car had transformed into a welcoming jungle with soft green ferns and night blooming jasmine scenting the air, Bucky Fucking Barnes wasn't Bucky Fucking Barnes in his head anymore; he was just _Bucky_ . And Bucky looked beautiful in the soft glow of the street lights. _Bucky_ , terrified that he'd offended Steve with a simple touch, looked... _beautiful_.

Wanting nothing more than to erase that terrified look from Bucky’s colorful face, and to stop his stammering apologies, Steve glanced down at his empty thigh and didn’t like the look of it…he wished that there were still five silver rings making impressions in his jeans...he _wanted_ to hold Bucky’s hand. Oh god, he _wanted to hold his hand_!  

So he did.

And for the first time in his life, when he grabbed Bucky’s fingers and placed them back against his thigh, Steve felt a flutter deep in his stomach that he hadn’t even known was missing. When their fingers touched, there was a surge in his emotions created by the charged stream of energy that can pass between two people, and he was amazed by the power of it. The tiny hairs on Steve’s arms stood on end, and he felt so overwhelmed by the buzzing feeling at the base of his spine, that he could only stare out the window as Bucky steered the truck into a narrow back alley.

The metallic taste of blood was still lingering on his tongue, and his face was throbbing worse than before, but Steve was able to focus in on the feeling of Bucky’s fingers; allowing his touch to stop the howling noises inside of his mind. As his thoughts finally grew quiet, Steve didn't even care what that meant….

Holding Bucky’s hand, he allowed himself to just _be_.

*****

 

 

How the actual fuck was Bucky supposed to fit this bazillion-dollar giant ass car into his tiny mouse hole of a garage? It was barely fitting down the skinny alley to _get_ to the garage, so making the sharp turn _into_ the garage, without putting scratches down both sides, seemed like a skill that far surpassed his shitty driving ability.

As nice as Steve’s fingers felt wrapped around his hand, and as nice as Steve’s leg felt underneath his palm (and as weird as it was that he was touching both of those body parts), Bucky wasn’t stupid enough to attempt the impossible docking maneuver one handed. So, he reluctantly tugged his hand away (god, he missed that already) and tried not to plow straight into everything.

By sheer force of will, and buckets full of blind luck, he managed to squeeze the Escalade in between his Dad’s Toyota and the shitload of boxes and bikes that were stacked haphazardly along the wall. He only _gently_ ran over Natasha’s rollerblades, and his old skateboard, and maybe knocked over the recycling bin, but he was calling it a job well done. Once Bucky figured out how to turn the stupid truck off (goddamned spaceship), he quickly realized that there wasn’t enough room for him to get out of the fucking car! The shit, boxes, and bikes were three inches from his door. Classic.

Steve was back to staring out the window like a zombie, but not the Walking Dead kind of zombie that chased after you with outstretched arms and nasty growls, more like...Bucky ran a million options through his head; Shaun of the Dead? No. Day of the Dead? No. Resident Evil? No. Bucky sighed...okay maybe he didn’t look like a zombie at all. Bucky’s authentic assessment of Steve’s condition: he was staring out the window like a super depressed guy who’d just gotten his face smashed in.

Steve could have been looking at his dad’s miniature car (compared to the spaceship), or the cracked concrete block wall, where his dad had tried (and failed) to pound in nails to hang up some of the shit, or nothing...Bucky honestly couldn’t tell. In the flourescent light of the garage, the swelling around his eye looked ten times worse, and the cut on his forehead was gaping. God, maybe he needed to take Steve to the hospital? Maybe Bucky wasn’t gonna be enough?

But they couldn’t stay trapped in the fucking truck all night, and there was no way in hell that Bucky was gonna try to back _out_ of the garage, so he scrambled over the center console and awkwardly flopped into the back seat. It was legitimately frightening that Steve was so completely out of it, that he didn’t seem to notice that Bucky’d gracefully fallen face first onto the floor behind his seat. Not just that, but he’d managed to wedge himself in between the floor and the back seat, giving himself a killer view of the empty bottles of Muscle Milk and a couple of tiny roaches (Bucky added ‘pothead’ to his list of new things he was learning about Steve) that were shoved underneath the passenger seat, _and_ his legs were totally sticking up into the air over the console. Bucky tried not to kick Steve in the face, as he wriggled around for a good thirty seconds, before he managed to escape. The humiliation of the situation was off the chart, which meant that Bucky’s best option was to jump on the catatonia bandwagon with Steve, and pretend that the evil truck hadn’t just tried to eat him for dinner.  

Fuck, Bucky had to get them out of here! He threw open the back passenger side door, promptly slamming it into his dad’s silver Toyota with a huge bang, and Steve _still_ didn’t move an inch. He wanted to laugh, or maybe cry, or maybe both. What the hell was even happening right now?

The door to the house creaked open, and his Dad and Natasha appeared with obvious confusion written all over their faces. They simultaneously tipped their heads to the right in a synchronized demonstration of complete bewilderment, which was a completely appropriate reaction. There was only about eight inches of space for Bucky to try to fit out of the car, and he prayed that the Turkey Deluxe Subway Footlong that he’d wolfed down before the meet had digested enough for him to make the squeeze. It was really tight ( _really really_ tight), but he managed to turn into Mr. Fantastic and climb out to relative safety.

He closed his eyes and groaned as he shut the door, because he knew...he ventured a glance at the side of his dad’s car...and, oh yeah, that was a dent all right. He might even classify it as a _huge_ dent. Mother fucker. He didn’t want to...but he turned his head to see how badly he’d fucked up Steve’s door and...nothing. Not a scratch. Money must buy you indestructible metal car doors too.

“Bucky,” his dad started, “what are you…”

He stopped as quickly as he’d begun when he saw Steve. Apparently, delivering a six-foot-tall, bloody teenager to their garage, trumped denting the fuck out of his Toyota. As his dad’s jaw dropped, Bucky hilariously thought, _pick up or delivery?_ and pictured Steve as a giant pepperoni pizza. He almost laughed, but then he realized that it was _not_ hilarious, and that he still had to get Steve out of the fucking truck.

“I need to get him out,” he yelled, before gently opening Steve’s door and trying not to bash it into his dad’s car this time. But there was no way that he could avoid letting the cars touch when he tried to squeeze his ass into the gap to pop Steve’s buckle. “Steve, hey, we’re here. Let’s go inside, okay?”

Steve suddenly registered that Bucky was once again messing with his seatbelt, and he focused his eyes on Phil and Natasha before wincing. Bucky couldn’t even imagine what he must be feeling, or how much he must be hurting, but Steve listened and tried to shift his body to try to fit out through the narrow space. His chest was broader than Bucky’s, so he had to drag his muscles along the doorframe in order to fit. Every inch was painful for both of them, and when the blood from Steve’s leather jacket smeared across the leather and chrome, Bucky decided that they were in the middle of a horror movie. Wes Craven was gonna jump out of the rafters and yell, “Cut!” at any second, or Freddy Krueger was gonna jump out from behind the crushed recycling bin (no...gently knocked over recycling bin) and impale them both with his Wolverine gloves.

Stumbling forward, Steve smeared blood across the window of the Toyota, which amped up the horror movie vibe and officially graduated them to the stuff of nightmares. Leather Face was firing up the chainsaw, Michael Myers was lighting jack-o-lanterns and sharpening his knives, and The Blair Witch was about to put Steve in the corner.

Bucky caught Steve’s arm to keep him steady while he slammed the car door shut, and _of course_ he’d put another goddamn ding in the side of his dad’s fucking car! _Of course, he fucking did!_ But, thankfully, he didn’t have time to worry about it, because his dad finally rushed over and helped him get Steve into the house...thank god.

 

 

Their kitchen was small, and their red and white checkered dining room table was shoved up against the window so that only three chairs could fit around it. The walls were a warm honey yellow, and the light that hung over the table was a silver retro chandelier that Natasha had found at a thrift shop in The East Village. Daisy had painted them a picture of yellow...well, daisies (she’d called it a self-portrait)... and Bucky had pounded in the nail himself and hung it in its special little corner of happiness next to the window. He’d always felt happy in this kitchen; it was filled with memories of learning how to speak English over family dinners filled with new and exciting foods, and of sitting for hours, talking to his brand new sister about all of the brand new things that they wanted to try next, or bonding over Pizza Rolls and comic books with his new friend Clint. Everything new and happy in his life had passed through this tiny kitchen.

Now, a decidedly unhappy Steve Rogers was standing in the middle of the black and white linoleum floor. His sadness clashed with the room, and Bucky wanted to make Steve match.

Steve pliantly let Phil sit him down in one of the kitchen chairs, then sat stoically as he pulled up another one to sit across from him. “Natasha, get some warm water and a cloth,” his dad ordered. “Bucky, get the frozen peas.”

He knew that his dad was shocked, but he was super calm under pressure. The ‘authoritative but kind’ dad mode had always made him feel safe, and he hoped that it could somehow make Steve feel safe too; even if it was only a little bit. Natasha’s eyes were wide as she ran the faucet, asking Bucky a thousand questions that he didn’t have the foggiest how to answer, so he shrugged his shoulders and kept struggling to find the peas behind the frozen pizzas and ice cube trays.

“Steve,” his dad asked, “can you tell me what happened?”

“I can’t,” he whispered immediately, before scrunching up his face and staring at Natasha’s chandelier. The blood had stopped oozing and dripping, but the trails that were running down his face and neck looked even worse in the bright kitchen light.

Phil touched his knee, and said, “I need to call the police.”

“You can’t! Please...I just...please.” The look of desperation on Steve’s face was…Bucky didn’t even know what it was. It made him feel nauseous.

His dad stared at Steve for a very long time, before sighing, “I need you to come talk to me at school tomorrow, if you feel okay enough to go, or after school if you don’t. This can’t continue, Steve. Bucky will get you patched up, and you can stay here tonight on one condition.” All six eyes turned to Phil with bated breath, and Bucky tried not to drop the gallon of Moose Tracks ice cream that he was juggling in his hands. Putting his hands firmly on Steve’s shoulders, his dad said, “I need to photograph your injuries.”

Steve dropped his eyes to the floor, and slid the toes of his shoes backwards onto the white tiles so that they weren’t touching the cracks. “Okay.”

“Do I need to call anyone to let them know where you are?”

Bucky was well aware that Phil didn’t say, “do you need me to call your step-dad who just beat the shit out of you”, which meant that everyone was on the same page. He finally found the peas all the way in the back, grabbed all of them, then did drop the ice cream on his toes, before managing to shut the freezer door. He should probably warn everyone that the next person who opened that door was gonna get attacked by falling burritos and ice-cream sandwiches...but Natasha shut off the steaming faucet, and walked over to squeeze Bucky around the waist in a silent show of support...so he just pretended that he forgot.

His sister always knew everything: she knew all the rumors about Alexander Pierce, she knew about Bucky’s unhealthy obsession with Skittles, she knew about Bucky’s ridiculous feelings for Steve and that he’d totally stalked his Facebook page to find pictures of him in his swim trunks, she knew that Bucky watched way too much Jake Bass porn, and Bucky was positive that she knew exactly why Steve Rogers was bleeding in the middle of their kitchen. While he stood there holding three bags of frozen peas, Natasha rubbed the center of his back in wide circles and Bucky knew that she understood.

When his dad had finished taking pictures of the huge cut above Steve’s eye, and the dried blood running down over his lips and chin from his nose, Bucky was completely shocked when Steve lifted up his shirt to reveal a huge patch of quickly blooming bruises across his ribs. His heart sank...because how the hell could somebody do that! What the actual fuck!?

“Steve,” Phil said, setting the camera on the table and swallowing. “I’m glad you’re here. We’re going to figure this out, okay?” When he touched Steve’s shoulder, a new batch of tears started rolling down his cheeks, and Bucky wanted to run over and hold him. He couldn’t help it! It wasn’t fair that Steve felt like that! Nobody should feel that way! Natasha leaned her red hair on Bucky’s shoulder while they waited. It took Steve a long minute to pull in enough deep breaths before he finally managed to nod.

His dad gave Steve’s shoulder one more squeeze, before he slid back his chair and walked over to grab Bucky’s shoulder instead. “Can you handle this?”

That was a very good question.

He had three bags of peas, which was a pretty good start, so he tried to sound convincing, when he said, “Yes.” (Even though Bucky’s plan hadn’t gotten past frozen vegetables.)

For some reason his dad bought that answer hook, line, and sinker, then nodded before he headed into to the living room. Natasha, the perfect picture of calm support, gave Bucky a super big Baymax hug before tip-toeing over to touch Steve’s bicep. In reality, she said, “If you need anything at all, Steve, we’re all here for you. You’re not alone.” But what Bucky heard was that puffy marshmallow robot, saying, “It is okay to cry. Crying is a natural response to pain.”

He balanced his three (hopefully magical) bags of peas over his arm, and grabbed the bowl of warm soapy water, before directing Steve up the wooden stairs to his bedroom. As Bucky led the way down the hallway, he desperately tried to remember if he’d left out anything embarrassing in his room...the inventory that scrolled through his brain quickly led him to the conclusion that _everything_ in his room was embarrassing...but there was no turning back now.

Throwing open his door, he exposed The Great Steve Rogers to his tornado of dirty laundry, his mish mash of posters, the epic collection of weird knick knacks from places far and wide, and the countless random DVDs littered all over the place. He frantically stumbled over to his bed to try to throw shit into the corner behind his dresser: dirty Prince t-shirt that had been sitting on the edge of his desk since last week, ‘Blade Runner: Special Director’s Cut’ that he’d started to watch for the fiftieth time last night...and that he totally wanted to quote (“All these moments will be lost in time, like tears in rain.”), but he figured that Steve wasn’t exactly up for existential android monologues...the math homework that he was supposed to have finished by Wednesday (he totally didn’t), underwear (so much underwear), at least twenty hair ties in assorted colors all over the floor, and his scary bunny slippers that were proudly displayed in the middle of his comforter. Even with as fast as Bucky had moved, there was no way that Steve didn’t see their scary little faces, with the jagged teeth and bloodshot eyes, staring right at him.

Bucky ran his hands over his face because he was mortified, but he still had the brilliant idea that his scary bunny slippers might cheer Steve up; with his bloody face and stuff, they kinda matched.

“Okay, sorry about that. I’m a total slob. Sorry,” he stuttered, smoothing out his comforter. “Okay, here, come sit on the bed. I’m gonna get you some clothes and then we’ll get you fixed up.”

Steve was once again a good listener, and tentatively shuffled over to the bed. Even though he was still acting like a…(whatever, Bucky still couldn’t think of a good analogy)...Steve _was_ looking around the room with slightly raised eyebrows. Was he thinking that Bucky was a total freak, because he had every Walking Dead Pop lined up in a perfect post-apocalyptic row on the shelf above his desk, with five first-edition comics in protective hard plastic sleeves propped up behind them? Was he wondering why in the hell Bucky had over five-hundred DVD’s shoved into an overflowing bookcase next to the door? Was he pondering the cosmic question of why the fuck Bucky had chosen to tack up a giant poster of David Bowie, wearing a fedora and smoking a long thin cigarette, on the wall above his Epiphone Les Paul gold sparkle flake guitar? Was he pondering why Bucky had a _gold sparkle flake guitar?_ The answers to all of those questions made perfect sense in Bucky’s crazy world, but Steve Rogers didn’t really seem like the Ziggy Stardust type.

When Steve eventually sat down on the patriotic comforter (the one with the tiny blue and red stars all over it) he looked at the floor and raised his eyebrows even higher. Following his gaze, Bucky was surprised that he was staring at the dirty ‘My Little Pony’ shirt that had gotten trapped underneath his white tennis shoe. That was the shirt that Bucky’d been wearing when all of this insanity had started last Friday, and the way that Steve was staring at the crumpled purple pony, like it was a curiosity, made Bucky wonder if he was thinking about that first rooftop encounter too.

Trying to toss the peas up in the air, like he was cool or something, Bucky told himself to stop worrying about what Steve Rogers might be thinking about the miniature disco ball hanging over his bed, so that he could get down to the business of playing nurse. Paging Nurse Bucky, paging Nurse Bucky to the ER, STAT. Again, not appropriate, but he tucked it away as a potential Halloween costume. He looked good in white.

The penultimate professional, he slid his pink plastic desk chair right in front of his patient, and calmly said, “I’m gonna help you, okay?” Then a thought hit him that made him stop with the warm washcloth halfway to Steve’s forehead. “Unless you wanna do it yourself?”

There was a pause, and Steve kept right on squinting at the super gay ‘Velvet Goldmine’ poster on the wall at the foot of his bed. Bucky groaned, because Ewan McGregor was sensually kissing Jonathan Rhys Meyer, and they were both decked out in sparkling gold trench coats and top hats, looking sooo gay. Beyond gay. It didn’t get any gayer! In retrospect, maybe hanging the epitome of seventies sexual liberation at the foot of his bed had been a horrific lapse in judgement. Looking at it now, with Steve Rogers soaking in all the pretty boy porn, it was so damn obvious that Bucky’d hung it there because it was the perfect placement for jerking off.

Steve didn’t take his eyes off the glitter and gold, when he said, “No, you can help.”

Wow, okay. Maybe super gay seventies glam rock was cool with Steve? Or, maybe he couldn’t really see what was going on because his eye was so swollen? Either way, Bucky started to gently wipe away the dried blood from his temple, then around the cut on his forehead, before running the cloth down his cheek towards his strong chin. He’d longed to touch Steve’s gorgeous face for years, and should probably admit to spending many nights (and afternoons) imagining that Steve was wearing the gold trench coat instead of Ewan, but wiping dried blood off of his cheekbones wasn’t at all how he’d pictured it.

Following the river of blood downwards, Bucky saw that it had dripped past Steve’s jaw and traveled down his neck. “Yikes, um, can you take off your jacket? There’s some blood, um…”

Before he could even finish his sentence, Steve leaned back and unzipped the coat like it was nothing. The blood that had dried on the zipper cracked and flaked off onto Steve’s lap as he pulled it down, which made Bucky wince. Steve didn’t even notice. When Bucky took the jacket and turned around to throw it onto his messy desk, he missed the beginning of a pivotal event. He turned back around just in time to catch Steve Rogers grabbing the hem of his black t-shirt and pulling it over his head. Holy shit. Bucky didn’t know what to do. There were so many muscles, and they were all right in front of him, and he was gonna pass out...

He was well aware that this was a _very_ serious, _very_ non-sexy situation...but Steve Rogers was sitting in his bedroom, on his bed, half naked, and Bucky could see his nipples...if he reached out his hand he could totally touch his nipples...and Steve was letting Bucky wipe him down with a warm washcloth. It took considerable effort for him to pull his jaw up off the floor and close his mouth. He had to employ his now familiar mantra: Don’t get a boner. Don’t get a boner.

“Holy shit…” Bucky gasped (he couldn’t help it). “I mean, not holy shit bad...holy shit muscles...sorry, no...okay. Let me just get this last bit here.” He dipped the washcloth into the pink water and squeezed it out into the bowl, trying to be professional Nurse Bucky in his white scrubs, with his lanyard, and his thermometer...but he was struggling. He was man enough to admit it.

The cloth picked up the blood trail along Steve’s jaw, then Bucky followed the path down the front of his neck and over the hill of his collarbone. He had to pause there, because he’d reached those little blond chest hairs, and Steve was staring right at him; not like a zombie ( _still_ not like a zombie)...not like he was sad... but like, _intense_. He’d never seen Steve look like that before. Wow, just wow.

“Wow,” Bucky chuckled nervously, and leaned back a little in his chair. Oh fuck, he’d just said that out loud! “Um, I mean, you really need stitches for this cut on your forehead, it’s really bad, but I’m gonna just butterfly bandage the hell out of it and hope for the best.”

The intense look kept right on being _intense_ , as Bucky used six white bandages to seal it shut, then handed Steve a ‘Boston” t-shirt and a pair of purple pajama pants with little vampire bats flying all over them. They really were the least ridiculous pair that were clean, and he didn’t own any plain ones, plus they also kinda matched tonight’s theme; so he just went for it. He also decided at the last second (because he was a genius) to put the scary bunny slippers on top of the pile in Steve’s arms, before he pointed out the bathroom, told him where to find a new toothbrush, then sent him trudging down the hall.

Since he didn’t know what else to do, Bucky decided to change into his own pajama bottoms (which required way more thought than usual). He went with his kickass ‘Star Wars’ pants with ‘The Empire Strikes Back’ pattern. He couldn’t really go wrong with the big meanie Darth Vader, wise old Yoda, and Luke Skywalker lookin’ all buff and sexy in a beige tank top while learning how to use the force. So fucking hot. He dug through his drawer to find the tight beige tank top that showed off his shoulder muscles, because he wanted to match Luke...no other reason (totally other reasons)...and started fixing up his bed. Then it _really_ hit him: he was making his bed for _Steve Rogers_ ! He was about to put _Steve Rogers_ in his bed! His bed was _sooo_ not ready for the likes of Steve Rogers.

And Bucky was _sooo_ not ready when Steve wandered back through the door with those bloody little bats flying all over his gorgeous long legs, wearing _no_ ‘Boston’ t-shirt (repeat _no_ _shirt_ ), with the scary bunnies snugly wrapped around his feet. Steve took a few experimental steps in place to figure out how to make the ears go up and down, and even though it was quiet, Bucky heard a tiny laugh. Mission accomplished! Good job, scary bunny slippers!

Steve left them on as he climbed into bed, and Bucky backed up a few steps to really take in the scene. He was carefully arranging one bag of frozen peas across his eye and placed the other two across his bruised ribs...it made Bucky simultaneously want to kick someone’s ass and softly kiss Steve goodnight on the cheek before reading him a bedtime story. He really couldn’t even mentally comment on the sea of conflicting emotions that were swirling through his head, so he just grabbed his extra pillow and the fuzzy cow print blanket from the end of his bed, and said, “If you need anything just ask, okay? Goodnight.”

As soon as Bucky took a step towards the door, it was like Steve snapped out of a coma. He sounded panicked, when he asked, "Where are you going?"  

Huh. That was a very confusing question...but it had been a very confusing night, so why not add to it? "Well, I’m gonna go sleep on the couch, so if you need..."

"Bucky?" Steve interrupted.

He honestly had never been so confused in his entire life. "Uh, yeah?"

"Can you try something with me?"    

At least two-hundred-zillion possible meanings for that request flew through Bucky's head in a millisecond, but then he realized that Steve could ask him to put a lampshade on his head and eat twenty ghost peppers while singing ‘Baby’ by Justin Bieber, and he’d probably jump at the chance. So, he found himself saying, "Uhhh...okay."

Then Steve said something so shocking that Bucky thought that _he_ might be the one with the head injury. "Can you sleep here with me? I just don't want to be alone right now, and this is a big bed, and I don't want to kick you out of your own room, and so...yeah."    

That was more words than Steve had put together since Bucky had discovered him crying on the roof of the stupid parking structure, and he sounded nervous...and _holy shit_ was Bucky nervous...what the fuck was going on? He’d just been invited into his own bed by the beautiful Steve Rogers, who was wearing scary bunny slippers and was covered in frozen vegetables. Yeah, turning down that request was _not_ an option.  

The bed was shoved up against the wall and blocked at both ends by the green walls, and since Steve was lying on his back near the front edge staring up at the disco ball, Bucky had to awkwardly climb over his legs to get to the other side. This was a critical decision... whether to climb across with his ass towards Steve’s face, or if he should present him with the Yoda covered dick view? The ass or the crotch? _Both_ , his mind provided. Jesus.

He opted for the front view (not like it mattered), because Steve was staring at the little reflecting disco mirrors the whole fucking time that Bucky was comically trying to climb over his legs without letting their bodies touch. He felt like Catherine Zeta Jones in ‘Entrapment’. That scene where she’s practicing sliding over and under the laser beams so that she could steal some famous work of art. It was exactly like that, except that Bucky wasn’t seductively rolling his ass up into the air for the benefit of Sean Connery, he was just trying to avoid Steve’s legs so he didn’t trip the alarm. Not that he _wouldn’t_ seductively roll his ass up in the air for Steve Rogers’ benefit, but again, not the time. _Not the time_. He’d mostly succeeded in avoiding Steve’s laser (he needed to have a serious talk with his brain), but when he finally collapsed into his spot, he slammed his hand against the wall with a loud thump. He was pretty sure that he broke all of his fingers. God, he was smooth. Smooth as luscious chocolate silk and eighties Lionel Richie. ‘Hello’ started playing in his head as he tried to calm the fuck down. “Hello, is it me you’re looking for?” Yeah, thanks Lionel. Not working!

Bucky took a second to thank his dad for buying him a queen size bed last year, so that this miracle of all miracles could take place. The twin bed that had previously occupied this space had barely fit _him_! But this glorious bed was big enough that there was still about a foot of space left in between them, even after he’d settled onto his back next to Steve. He was lying next to Steve. Steve. Steve. Steve...They weren't touching at all, like there was some sort of an invisible barrier running down the center of the mattress, but Bucky felt an electric charge; like the air might start sparking at any second. He wondered if Steve was feeling it too?

Because of the hand holding thing in the car…

Did he imagine the hand holding thing in the car?

God, he was so fucking nervous! And Steve was perfectly still next to him, with his eyes _still_ focused on the ceiling. Bucky's brain was running so fast, and so loud, that it was shocking, when Steve quietly said, "Can we try something else?"  

He stopped breathing for a second before slowly turning to face Steve, and the energy of the entire room shifted. The panic that he’d been feeling downshifted to something slower, and the change in the air was obvious. Bucky stopped everything and looked at Steve Rogers in the moonlight; his profile was distorted by the swelling around his eye and over his bruised cheekbone, his body was covered with three bags of frozen vegetables, and his mouth was open slightly as he stared at Bucky with his crystal blue eyes. It only took him a second to realize that he was looking at the real Steve Rogers; not The King of the Jocks, not The Golden God, not the idealized muscled hottie that he’d been crushing on like a horny idiot for the past three years...but a _real_ person...a person that wanted Bucky to be near him, who was allowing Bucky to help him, and who was letting Bucky really _see_ him for the first time.

Slowly blinking his eyes, Bucky felt something completely new. He realized that he wanted to learn _this_ Steve, and that he wanted to oblige anything that _this_ Steve could possibly be asking of him. So Bucky gave him a little smile, and said, "Yes.”

*****

 

 

Bucky’s bed was so soft, the sheets and blankets were all fuzzy, and the baffling vampire bat pajama pants were a comforting worn in cotton that made Steve feel...good. That word didn’t really capture the full scope of how the little black bats swirling all over him, with their tiny bloody teeth, made Steve feel; but it was as close as he could get right now. They felt _good_ . Plus, his feet were warm and toasty, because Bucky had transformed them into fuzzy, evil bunny rabbits with scary red eyes, sharp fangs, and ears that had moved up and down when he’d walked back from the bathroom. It was funny, clever, and endearing that he’d tried to make Steve laugh with a variety of bloody mammals, and it all made him feel... _good_.

The bags of peas were freezing cold on his face and ribs, but Steve had never felt so warm. He had absolutely no idea what he was doing; letting each action grow organically out of the last without an end goal, and he didn’t care where he was going, only that he stayed on this warm, fuzzy road.

Steve wasn’t quite ready to look at Bucky lying next to him, but he could feel the heat from his body traveling across the space between them, and it made his head swim. There was some sort of magnetic force building, and as Steve took some slow breaths to try to get used to the disorienting feeling, he picked out the constellations created by the little glow-in-the-dark stars that were stuck to the ceiling. It was easy to spot Orion’s Belt and The Big Dipper, Aries and Taurus, and even Canis Major, the dog. He wondered if Mr. Barnes had lovingly stood atop a ladder, carefully placing each star in just the right spot for his newly adopted son, while teaching him the names of the ancient constellations in his new language? Or, maybe Bucky had done it himself with a book on Astronomy spread out on his star covered blanket for reference. Did Bucky like space? Or just the stars? Steve was mesmerized by the slowly swaying little disco ball refracting the moonlight across the imperfect cracks and corners of the ceiling, and bouncing the patterns around Bucky’s glowing galaxy. It made Steve feel brave.

"Can we try holding hands again?"

Once he’d said the words, Steve felt a combination of hope and panic. What the hell was he doing? What the hell had he been doing _all week_? All the smiles that he couldn’t control, and the uncontrollable urge to protect Bucky, and the feelings that he’d gotten whenever they’d touched…

The weight on the bed shifted, and Steve could tell that Bucky had let his fingers creep into the empty space between them; a cautious offering...not touching...just waiting. Waiting for Steve’s mind to transform Bucky’s messy Brooklyn bedroom into an Emerald green jungle, to put on his white footie pajamas and a golden crown, and to sail across the rolling cerulean ocean to the land of the Wild Things. When Steve finally let their fingers touch...skin touching skin at first, then finally intertwining...everything clicked for him. _Everything_.

How hadn’t he seen this before? Was it Bucky? Was it the fuzziness? What the hell? He was holding hands with a guy...and he...he let out a shaky breath, because he felt...

Bucky’s thumb started rubbing up and down the side of his hand in a calming rhythm, and the momentary feeling of panic ended as quickly as it had begun. He was holding Bucky’s hand and it felt...soothing. Tracking the pattern created by the glowing stars of Perseus the Hero, Steve focused his mind back on all the things he was _feeling_ as Bucky’s thumb moved in slow circles across his skin. It was an electric feeling, full of vibration and energy, and he suddenly understood what had been missing with Peggy, Sharon, the other girls that he’d dated, and all of the nameless girls that he’d drunkenly made out with at parties.

His heartbeat started racing, like he’d been shocked by the electricity coursing through the space between them, and Steve felt his cock stir. _Holy fuck_! He felt his cock stir!

For the first time, since he’d climbed into Bucky’s bed in this strange jungle, Steve turned his head and looked at him... and he wanted him. Oh, christ, Steve licked his lips, because he wanted to kiss him! How had he never admitted to himself how beautiful Bucky’s lips were? They curved in a tantalizing line that Steve wanted to recreate with his pencil, but right now he wanted to trace the shape with the tip of his finger. Bucky’s hair was still pulled back in a tight bun and...Steve couldn’t stop himself...he slowly reached across Bucky’s cheek and gently untangled the rubber band. When he pulled his fingers through the long soft strands to spread them out on the pillow, Bucky bit his bottom lip and let out the tiniest moan. The way that Bucky’s wavy hair felt running through his fingers was so pure, and...god, Steve just wanted....

"Bucky..."

“Yeah?” Bucky whispered breathlessly, and pressed his head into Steve’s touch.

“Can I kiss you?”

Now, it was Bucky’s turn to blow out a shaky breath. He squeezed Steve’s fingers and slowly nodded, and that was the moment that Steve finally let everything else fall away and did _exactly_ what his body wanted. He stripped off the rest of his costume and trusted his instincts and desires, allowing himself to jump and scream in the lush green jungle with the wildest of the Wild Things.

Tenderly cupping Bucky's jaw, he slowly kissed him like he was the most precious thing in the universe...because under the glowing stars and the shimmering light of the disco ball, he was...he _was_. When Steve slipped his tongue across his soft lower lip, Bucky moaned and rolled his hips against Steve's thigh in the most sensual, delicious way. Bucky moved like water; ebbing and flowing in powerfully calming waves, and when his lean body pressed against him, Steve’s dick started getting hard.

Holy shit...nothing was wrong with him! He wanted to laugh and cry, because _nothing was wrong with him_! Kissing the skin of Bucky’s neck, Steve allowed his body to lead him, and he turned to press himself against Bucky's stomach.

But before he could take that daring step, a bag of softening peas fell into the space between them, and it must have reminded Bucky that he was a beat up mess; because he immediately pulled back and ran his hand over the short hairs behind Steve’s ear.

“Steve, your eye,” he whispered, as his thumb gently touched Steve’s swollen cheekbone. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“You’re doing the opposite of hurting me.”

“But your ribs…”

“I don’t care,” Steve interrupted, lightly touching Bucky’s narrow waist.

“But Sharon…”

“It’s over with Sharon.”

“But, Steve.” Bucky stopped moving completely, and stared right into his eyes. What he managed to say with the look on his face, revealed that he was worried about much more than re-opening the cut above Steve’s eye.

Steve allowed his finger to slide up Bucky’s body and traced his razor sharp jawline; the one that, he now realized, had been sucking him in since the Monday Morning Breakfast Club. Bucky shifted into the motion but was still searching Steve’s face for answers.

When Steve murmured, “Bucky, I don’t care,” he was talking about so much more than cuts and bruises.

Steve pulled the thawing bag of peas out from between their stomachs and tossed it across the room. “Do you hear me, Bucky?” he whispered, as he finally allowed their bodies to press together fully and warm up the space where the ice had been. Rolling his hips against Bucky felt like an epiphany, so he nibbled at Bucky’s earlobe, then exhaled, “I don’t care anymore, I just want…”

He tangled his fingers in Bucky’s messy hair, and jumped in with both feet. “I just want... _you_ ,” he whispered, before kissing this beautiful boy’s forehead.

It felt like home.

*****

 

 

Bucky thought of himself as a pretty smart guy, so he wasn’t gonna lie and pretend that he wasn’t concerned that he was somehow taking advantage of Steve’s obvious concussion. When Steve had said, “I don’t care,” Bucky had initially thought that he was talking about his ribs, and the cut, and the horrible black eyes that were forming (which had really worried him). Was Steve making out with Bucky to bury his physical pain? Was Bucky was just another butterfly bandaid temporarily closing a gaping wound that had really needed a fuck load of stitches?

But then, Steve had run his thumb up and down Bucky’s jaw, and he’d involuntarily leaned into the touch like a purring cat...because at that particular moment he pretty much was. Feline, or not, Bucky still didn’t understand what was going on, and he had real concerns that Steve’s head wound was serious enough that it was somehow making him think that he was gay...because the way that he’d been touching Bucky was the epitome of gay gay gay.

When he’d said, “I don’t care,” the second time, Bucky had known for sure that Steve was talking about something besides his girlfriend (ex-girlfriend?) and his purple ribs. Layers of Steve Rogers were peeling back, and falling off like an onion, all over the star covered sheets. Then, after Steve had tenderly kissed his forehead, Bucky had known for a fact that the heavy petting wasn’t some sort of weird coping thing...Steve was talking about _everything_.

As soon as Steve had dramatically thrown the frozen peas across the room (don’t do it, Celine), and had softly told Bucky that he wanted him (holy fucking shit), Bucky understood that this was about so much more than two horny guys getting their rocks off. Steve didn’t mean that he _wanted him_ like Rihanna would moan in one of her oversexed pop songs, or that he _wanted him_ like a horrible porno actor _wanted_ the sexy carpenter in the pre-fuck scene. No, Steve _wanted him_ in a very emotional Ryan Gosling in ‘The Notebook’ kinda way.

Bucky had that romantic movie pretty much memorized for two reasons: one, he was a total sap, and two, Ryan Gosling was hot as fuck. When Steve buried his face in Bucky’s hair, that perfect romantic scene played in his mind: ‘ _It’s not going to be easy. It’s going to be really hard. We’re going to have to work at this every day, but I want to do that because I want to be with you. I want all of you, forever, you and me, every day’_. God, he really hoped that Steve was a fan of ‘The Notebook’.

With Steve’s intentions confirmed (sort of), Bucky stopped holding back. He touched and kissed Steve everywhere that he’d wanted to touch and kiss Captain Steve Rogers for the past three years (well, almost everywhere). But it wasn’t anything like Bucky had vividly imagined (and jacked off to) so many times. Touching Steve in the flesh was like nothing Bucky had ever felt before.

His sexual experience up to this point had consisted of a few fumbled kisses with the equally inexperienced TJ Campbell (before that had gotten all fucked to hell), one drunken kiss with Skinner that had been one-hundred percent one sided (and had only happened because Bucky had lost every ounce of self-control when Skinner had started speaking French), and lots of _platonic_ kissing and _platonic_ blow jobs with Clint (Yeah...it was fucked up).

 

Bucky’s Sexual Resume: 

*Never had a real boyfriend

*Virgin

*Expert at sucking his best friend’s cock

 

You see, Bucky and and his _very_ laid back, _very_ straight, but _very_ cool best friend, had decided sophomore year that they should practice their sexual skills on one another, since they weren’t getting any action elsewhere. Practical, right? As a result of their brilliant plan, Bucky had gotten very, very, very, good at blow jobs by _platonically_ sucking off his best friend for well over a year. Clint had tried to return the favor on a few occasions, but dick sucking wasn't really his thing, so he’d always jack Bucky off instead. Bucky had also perfected the use of his lips by _platonically_ making out with his best friend, in between raucous sessions of Rock Band, jamming Nirvana on their guitars, and playing fetch with Lucky. And all of this was _cool,_ because they were just good like that.

Clint had put a stop to this extra fun and educational pastime last spring, when he’d, ‘gotten the hots for Natasha.’ Yeah, whatever. Apparently, ‘liking his sister’ had made something that was already pretty fucking taboo, _extra_ taboo. Clint had thoughtfully explained that he hadn’t been able to stop himself from picturing Natasha’s brilliant red hair while he’d been pulling on Bucky’s, and that had been outside of the box, even for him. Whatever.

But touching and kissing Steve was something altogether new. There was real emotion driving every move of Steve’s body (not the need to get off), and Bucky felt like he was flying. When he ran his fingers through Steve’s golden hair, feeling the contrast between the short strands on the sides and the longer hairs on top, it made him want to kiss every single piece. Even covered in cuts and bruises, Steve looked so beautiful, and Bucky couldn’t register how any of this was even possible.

When Steve wrapped his arm around Bucky’s waist, then slid his hand underneath the tank top, there was no hiding what was happening with Bucky’s body. No amount of willpower or faithful chanting of the mantra, ‘don’t get a boner, don’t get a boner’ could hide the fact that he wasn’t wearing underwear, and that his dick was aggressively poking Steve in the hip.

He half expected Steve to stop everything, scream, and run for the hills when his mind finally registered that there were two dicks in the picture instead of one, but he didn’t even hesitate. Instead of freaking out, Steve pressed his body closer and lowered his hand to the top of Bucky’s ass, encouraging him to roll his hips against Steve’s leg. His dick was on Steve. He had to pause for just a second, because...back up... _his dick was on Steve_.

Jesus fucking christ. Bucky stopped thinking, and moaned when he realized that Steve was hard too...and what Bucky was feeling against his stomach was _no joke_. The little chest hairs, that he’d felt tickling him after the meet, felt more perfect than Bucky could have ever imagined, and Steve’s abs were so defined that Bucky couldn’t stop himself from moving down to trace each one with his tongue. After he’d kissed the skin in between Steve’s pecs, Bucky let his hands linger on the shelf of Steve’s hipbones, and stared at what was hiding underneath the pajama pants. Maybe it was the hypnotizing sight of Steve’s adonis lines peeking out above the vampire bats, or it could have been the furry bunny ears rubbing against Bucky’s ankles, but most likely it was the way that Steve was lightly pulling at his hair that was responsible for Bucky blurting out, “Steve, can I suck your cock?”

Fuck. That was too far. That was too fucking far. Shit. Fuck. Fuck.

The air pressure dropped, and Bucky stopped flying; Steve stopped moaning, and quit pulling on his hair...and Bucky _knew_ that he’d ruined everything with his big, stupid, mouth. Why, why, why did he say that? Well, that was an easy answer (because he totally wanted to), but it was too far. Dumb, dumb, dumb…

*****

 

 

Steve’s entire body felt like it was lighting up with all of the colors of the rainbow: warm yellow sparks where Bucky’s tongue was running over his chest and stomach, brilliant rivers of turquoise where Bucky’s hands drifted down over his abs to find a solid grip on his hips, rich blue transferring up his fingers through the strands of Bucky’s hair, and pink pouring into Steve’s skin every time Bucky’s lips made contact. It was pure magic.

When Bucky moaned, “Steve, can I suck your cock,” the colors doubled in intensity.

Bucky’s hands stopped their chromatic exploration, and Steve stopped gripping his gorgeous hair, because in all honesty, he really hadn’t gotten that far in his mind.

It took him about five seconds to realize that Bucky’s hands were squeezing his hips in a death grip, and that he was obviously panicking...which Steve didn’t want at all. Sliding his hand’s down around Bucky’s face, he whispered, “Hey, come up here.”

“But I just...”

“Bucky,” Steve interrupted. “Can you please climb on top of me, so I can kiss your beautiful lips?”

“Oh,” Bucky smiled, before sensually dragging his body along Steve’s.

As soon as he was close enough, Steve pressed his mouth against Bucky’s neck and felt the hint of stubble beneath his lips. Stubble...he took a moment to let that really sink in, before nipping at Bucky’s pulse point. Then he inhaled the scent of chlorine and sandalwood that was lingering in Bucky’s hair...not strawberries or peaches, or the delicate notes of rose that had floated off of Peggy’s...no, it was the strong, rich smell of sandalwood and perhaps eucalyptus. Steve let his tongue slip back into his warm mouth, and concentrated on how Bucky’s muscular arms felt as they ran across his back...there was power and weight in his motions, and Steve loved how heavy he felt lying on top of him. But, what he really had to think about, was the feeling of Bucky hard against his hip bone. He wasn’t moving much, but Steve could feel the tiny pulses of Bucky’s cock all the way down to his toes. The color that was pouring into Steve from that point of contact was a marbled mix of everything that his black and grey life had been lacking, and he realized that he’d never wanted to say yes to something more in his life.

Planting a solitary kiss right on Bucky’s mouth, Steve gave him a shy smile and nodded.

His blue eyes looked confused, then switched to shocked, as Steve ran his palms across the waistband of Bucky’s pants. Obviously, he’d been expecting Steve to say no, but that couldn’t be further from what he wanted; every cell in Steve’s body was screaming, “yes” and “more” and “please.”

“Really?”

“If you still want to.”

“Oh, believe me,” Bucky laughed, “I fucking want to.”

Steve held Bucky’s hips firmly, before asking one more time, “Are you sure?”

“Um, seriously, Steve. I’m sure.” Bucky kissed him slow and deep, before he crawled backwards and slid his fingertips just under the waistband of the vampire bat pajama pants.

Steve allowed himself the luxury of falling heavily onto his back, and watched in awe as Bucky licked his lips then started doing things with his hands and mouth that Steve hadn’t even known were possible. When he reached down to move Bucky’s hair to the side, Steve noticed that he was still wearing the scary bunny slippers, but the goofiness of the fuzzy rabbits on his feet didn’t matter in the slightest...because his dick was hard! Harder than it had ever been... and Steve felt relief.

He had really thought that something was wrong with him. Every time that Peggy had tried to suck him off, it was okay, but he’d never gotten anywhere close to coming. It had made him feel horrible every single time, because she’d tried really hard. Inevitably he’d get frustrated, and would turn the focus to Peggy, trying to distract her from his broken dick with kisses and high quality head. After Steve would make her come, he’d play it off that he’d just been nervous. That’s what he’d always told himself, at least...even though underneath he’d been totally convinced that something was wrong with him.

Peggy’d had this grandiose plan to romantically lose their virginity after Junior Prom, and even though Steve hadn’t wanted to, she’d refused to let it go. That’s how Steve had found himself in a five-star hotel that he’d paid for with Alexander’s Black American Express Card, with Peggy Carter spread out on the bed before him wearing beautiful red lacy lingerie. Everything had gone okay until it was time for the actual fucking, then his dick had stopped cooperating. He hadn’t understood what the fuck was wrong with him; there’d been a beautiful naked girl in front of him, he’d liked her, she’d had perfect brown hair and gorgeous red lips and she’d been perfect! But his dick hadn’t agreed, so he’d made up an excuse that he’d felt ill, then had played it off for a week before he’d finally broken up with her.

He’d given it another go with Sharon: nice, naive, virginal Sharon, who’d blamed Steve’s broken dick on herself. She’d say things like, “I'm sorry. Steve. I don't really know what I'm doing. I'll get better. I'm sorry,” and god, that hadn’t been fair to her. So, after that final horrific attempt at Ezra’s party last Saturday, he’d broken it off with her too.   

But now, deep inside of Bucky's mouth, with those big blue eyes staring up at Steve through his long eyelashes, there was absolutely nothing wrong with his dick! Jesus christ, what was Bucky doing with his tongue? Steve moaned and tried to hold his hips still, but it felt so good and...shockingly...he realized that he was about to come! He was about to come with another person for the first time in his life! He was about to come down Bucky’s throat! Oh, shit!

Steve at least had enough sense to realize that it would be rude to do that, so he grabbed Bucky's hair harder to pull him off...and holy shit, did that cause a delicious moan to pour out of the back of his throat...buzzing around Steve's cock.

"Bucky, oh god...Bucky, I'm gonna come,” Steve panted, then tried to grab Bucky’s armpits to pull him off.

Instead, Bucky made eye contact and grinned a little around the head, before sliding right back down. That delicious slide, with the lines of saliva pouring down his cock, and that naughty little grin, was all it took... and Steve came down the throat of a kind, beautiful boy.

As Bucky licked him clean (holy fuck, was he really doing that?) and pressed soft kisses onto his thighs and belly, Steve felt whole.

When Bucky came to lie next to him and Steve felt instantly warmer, it confirmed everything.

“Hey, Bucky.”   

"Yes,” he chuckled quietly, as he adjusted his head on the flannel pillowcase.

"I just realized two things.” Steve brushed an errant strand of hair over Bucky’s ear, then sighed, “First of all, that was incredible. _You_ are incredible.”

Bucky’s smile lit up the room. The way that his upper lip crinkled towards his nose and exposed just a bit too much tooth, and how his eyes got tiny little lines in the corners when he laughed...well, Steve wanted to stare at that smile all night.

“Secondly, I just figured out that I’m totally gay.”   

There was a pause when Bucky’s smile dropped, and his eyes opened wide in amused shock, but then, in a moment of pure joy, Bucky flipped onto his back and cracked up. He laughed and laughed, spilling contagious happiness and relief all over the room, until Steve caught the bug and started laughing hysterically right along with him. The two remaining mushy bags of peas slid off the bed, and Steve had to grab his ribs because they really hurt when he laughed. They caught eyes and both smiled giant toothy grins; the kind of secret smiles that only happen when two people realize that they’ve stumbled upon something special...the kind of smiles that only happen when you realize that the two of you belonged in the same world.

When Steve rolled over to kiss that beautiful smile, he realized that he liked tasting himself on Bucky's tongue, and that he was still hard against Steve’s thigh. It was tough to process how that made him feel; his head was still fuzzy from the amazing orgasm that he’d just experienced, and he was still pretty blown away by the realization that he was totally gay...but figuring out that you’re gay, and knowing what to do with a hard dick, were on two completely different levels. Of course, he’d aesthetically appreciated guys before, but before tonight he hadn't thought about kissing them, or touching them, or jesus, having sex with them. But, looking at Bucky now, as his lips nuzzled at Steve's shoulder and his hips rolled sensually against his thigh, he didn't care about his sexuality. He just wanted to make Bucky feel as good as he’d made Steve feel.

So, he found himself taking another giant leap when he reached down and grabbed Bucky's hip to still him. As soon as Steve touched him, Bucky stopped mouthing at his chest, and whispered, "It's okay, you don't have to."

Which, god, Steve thought was ridiculous. Something he _had to do_ was pretending that he enjoyed going on dates with Sharon. Something he _had to do_ was to live up to an impossible standard of perfection so that he didn't get his face bashed in. But making Bucky feel good? There was no _have to_ about it. Steve _wanted_ to...desperately.

With quiet confidence, Steve pressed Bucky’s narrow hips until he was flat on his back against the star covered comforter. Then he sat up on his knees and really took in the sight before him: Bucky, with his hair fanned out against the pillow, cautiously nibbling on his plump lower lip. Bucky, with his lean muscular body and his strong shoulders tapering down to a narrow waist, where a tiny sliver of skin was peeking out from beneath his beige tank top. Bucky, who had nowhere to hide the erection in his pajama pants. Steve instinctively licked his lips when his eyes landed there...and suddenly, even though they didn't know each other that well, and even though Steve had never touched another dick in his life...none of it mattered.

Bucky looked both uncertain and amazed as Steve slid the ‘Star Wars’ pants off of his hips and down over his feet. Before dropping them to the floor, Steve noticed Luke Skywalker in his beige tank top.

“Bucky,” he chuckled, “are you wearing the same tank top as Mark Hamill?”

“Yeah, I kinda coordinated.”

Steve felt overwhelming fondness; because anyone who took the time to perfectly match his shirt to the _actual_ character on his pants was a totally ridiculous person...and that was absolutely perfect in Steve’s book.

“I see,” Steve snickered, suddenly feeling completely confident. “I’d like you to take it off, if that’s okay with you.”

“Yeah, I can do that,” Bucky smiled. “But I’m still gonna look like Mark Hamill, no matter how naked you get me.” He yanked the cotton tank over his head then fell back against the pillow.

The joke had lightened the moment enough that Steve could take a second to adjust to this very new three-dimensional reality without freaking out. He was looking at another guy completely naked. He was kneeling between the legs of a completely naked guy who was obviously very excited by the situation. He took a few breaths because his head was swimming, but there was no doubt that Steve’s hands wanted to touch. Stripped of his polar bears and peppermints, his purple hands and his Muppet hoodie, and all of his hilarious Luke Skywalker tributes, the naked boy in front of Steve was just _Bucky_.

Watching the rise and fall of his chest, Steve let his eyes explore the smooth expanses of skin and muscle; observing how all of the pieces of Bucky fit together as a whole. He was a masterpiece.

Pure desire overtook him as Steve ran both of his hands firmly up Bucky’s thighs, then touched him...really touched him. First, he leaned forward to trace his fingertips down the side of Bucky’s neck, before dragging a trail across his collarbones and over his chest, and then finally down the center of his stomach. The hardness of his abs, the tiny hairs that traveled downwards below his belly button, the way the long veins followed his adonis lines towards his cock...Steve had never been so turned on.

He was entranced and emboldened by the tiny moans that were slipping from Bucky's mouth, as Steve’s fingers moved lower and lower. So, he took a deep breath, smiled at Bucky with a tiny lip bite of his own, then wrapped his hand around him. At first, Steve had thought that he'd give him a hand job, but as soon as he’d seen Bucky naked, that plan had flown right out the window. Steve wanted to kiss, lick, suck, and touch _everything_ , and when he slid backwards over Bucky’s thighs, he knew that he wasn’t going to hold back.

When he folded Bucky's long legs back so that he could taste him, Steve caught a glimpse of his ass...and swear to god, he almost came a second time just from the sight. Steve tried to get his breathing under control, because he was beautiful...and Steve just wanted to…jesus...

But he was gentleman, and this was all _very_ new, so he reigned himself in and concentrated on figuring out how to give a blow job.

 

 

Considering that Bucky came all over his stomach, with a beautiful arch to his back and tightly curled toes, Steve felt like he’d done a pretty decent job.

More than anything else that had happened in the seven crazy days since Steve had asked Bucky Barnes to enter his world, his favorite moment so far was something deceptively simple. The two of them had pulled the puffy comforter over their bodies to create a comforting safe haven full of stars, then had instinctively spooned their naked bodies together in a perfectly aligned puzzle (well, almost naked... the bunny slippers were staying on). Steve had folded his body around Bucky’s, buried his nose in his sandalwood hair, and had completely forgotten about his fucked up life. It was like nothing else existed as he kneaded his fingers into the skin on Bucky’s stomach and ran his bunny covered toes up the backs of his calves.

That was Steve’s favorite moment...the smell of the smoke as he imagined the orange sparks emerging from the bonfire and lazily floating into the night sky towards the constellations, and the deep green viridian hues of the leaves swaying gently overhead as Steve intertwined their fingers. Steve loved the feeling of the soft fur of his trusted Wild Thing pressing tightly against his skin, and it made him want to stay in the moment forever.

Before Steve drifted off into dreams of peppermints and polar bears, purple ponies, pink bubblegum, disco ball lights, and dancing ribbons of color, Bucky mumbled, "I really like you, Steve."   

Pulling Bucky even tighter against him, Steve kissed his muppet hair, before whispering, "I really like you too, Buck.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well we have reached the land of sexy times and Stucky goodness! Thank you sooooo much for everyone's amazing comments! I love reading every single one. Here's Chapter 5's 'Amazing List of Pop Culture Awesomeness (so you know what the hell I'm talking about)': OK, let's start with Steve's music- What he listens to is a real extension of his emotions and how he thinks so if you are looking to enhance your reading experience listen to Trent Reznor's & Atticus Ross' soundtrack for the new documentary 'Before the Flood'. I was picturing the songs 'Before the Flood' and 'A minute to breathe' for the scenes in the car. If you played those as you read the beginning I think you will really get the vibe of my poor Stevie. Also, if you like emotional, dramatic music check out Mogwai and Radiohead; Lionel Ritchie in the 80s was awesome. I am weirdly going to use more Lionel in future chapters so if you want to get familiar with 'Hello' and 'Easy' go for it. Movies- Velvet Goldmine is my favorite movie of all time. A gay glam rock extravaganza loosely based on David Bowie/Ziggy Stardust and Iggy Pop. It's about a young Christian Bale coming out and exploring his sexuality in the 70s glitter gay awesomeness of London, and its AMAZING!; 'Entrapment' is a really silly movie with Sean Connery and Catherine Zeta Jones but it has this sexy scene with Catherine maneuvering her body over and under strings while Sean Connery watches, and its weirdly hot. Picturing Bucky doing that made me laugh (a lot). So you should google it and laugh too ('Entrapment' laser scene); 'Big Hero 6' with the wonderful Baymax. I just want Baymax to fix up all the Avengers and give everyone puffy hugs!; 'Titanic' directed by James Cameron (yes more Titanic, I can't help it), 'The Empire Strikes Back', this chapter's giant cookie prize goes to the first person who comments why Bucky's Luke Skywalker pants are so damn funny!; 'Blade Runner' is one of the best Science Fiction movies ever made, with a very young Harrison Ford and one of the saddest lines ever (the one I quoted in the chapter). If you love film, its a must watch; Who doesn't love 'The Notebook'? lol. Other Randomness- The Walking Dead (so good!!!), The 'Boston' t-shirt Bucky gives Steve to wear is an 80s Rock Band. Cookie Prize #2 goes to the person who comments why this is an Easter Egg: I chose to use Constellations in Bucky's room because of Sebastian Stan's love of space, and Perseus the Hero for obvious reasons. Space is so cool; 'Pimp my Ride' was a show on MTV where they took people's shitty cars and turned them into crazy expensive pimped out vehicles with huge sound systems and built in bars. Literature- 'Where the Wild things Are' was my favorite childhood story and the film version by Spike Lee is a worthwhile watch. Imagining poor Steve venturing over to Bucky's jungle world to become his true self...woo that made me emotional; Edgar Allen Poe is a classic author who favored dark macabre stories and poems. His poem 'The Raven' is probably his most famous and is an English 101 lesson plan in the use of symbolism. Thanks again for reading! Find me on Instagram at JessieLucidArt and on Tumblr as lucidnancyboy. TONS more Stucky Art for your enjoyment! Cheers!


	6. Accidental Cuddling and Other Magnetic Properties

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have to give a huge shout-out to my beta:  
> [Lorien](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lorien/pseuds/Lorien)  
> She kicks ass. Please check out her gorgeous Stucky art on Tumblr  
> [drjezdzany](http://drjezdzany.tumblr.com)  
> She works so hard to help make this story what it is, and she deserves all the love for her generosity, dedication, and awesomeness.
> 
> Thank you for reading. Enjoy :)
> 
> Songs notes: Two songs are featured in this chapter that will really add to the scene if you play them as you read. The story will cue you. The Commodores "Easy", and Kiiara "Gold".

                                                           

 

The alarm on Natasha’s phone started blaring Rihanna’s ‘Love on the Brain’ at precisely five am, and she let it play for a minute before swiping her newly painted red nail across the screen to silence it. The song made her want to dance (most songs did), but there was something about the classic rhythms and the rough edges of her voice that made Natasha want to put on a pink poodle skirt, with a wide crinoline, and find a handsome boy, with cigarettes rolled up in the sleeve of his white t-shirt, to slow dance with. She had someone in mind, and she knew that he’d look devilishly handsome dressed like an Outsider, but she still wasn’t sure about letting it happen. So much history, so many risks...and then there was Bucky.

Reaching her hands above her head, Natasha began her daily ritual of carefully stretching out each limb one at a time, focusing on the movement of the muscles and taking note of any lingering sore spots from yesterday’s audition. Right big toe: toenail still severely painful from the process of breaking in her new pointe shoes last week. Muscles of upper back: tight from the hip hop choreography that she’d had to learn and perfect last night. Neck: right side sore from sleeping on her pillow wrong. Overall, not too bad.

Hopping out of her cozy bed, she folded her body forward and began loosening up each tight spot; moving from basic stretches to more complex yoga poses. She pressed up into downward facing dog, her red wavy hair falling to the ground around her face, then smiled as the muscles in her back and hips released. Morning was her favorite part of the day; when the house was quiet and she could focus on preparing her body and centering her mind.

She pushed the stretch as she slid down into the center splits, rolling her neck in slow circles before lowering her nose to the floor. When her chin hit the carpet, she remembered last night’s shitstorm and the very real fact that Steve Rogers was hiding out at their house. Natasha didn’t always know everything (even though she pretended she did), but one thing that she _did_ know was: Steve’s stepdad beat the holy hell out of him on a regular basis. It was the thing at school that everybody suspected but nobody talked about. Like somehow, if they pretended that they didn’t see the consistent pattern of bruises and cuts, that they could continue prioritizing things like chemistry quizzes, getting Banner to make them fake IDs, and shopping for the perfect Homecoming dress.

But Natasha saw the bruises, _every single time_ , and she wasn’t the type to allow Steve’s denial to influence her too...so, _every single time,_ she would pull him aside and try to talk some sense into him...and, _every single time,_ he would frustratingly refuse to admit anything, politely thank her for her concern, stubbornly decline to talk about it, then stupidly perpetuate the lie that he didn’t need any help. She was pretty sure that Sam knew the real story, but he was loyal to Rogers to a fault. Anything that Steve did, Sam was always right there to back him up, which, Natasha supposed, meant covering for Alexander Pierce if that’s what Steve wanted him to do.

Feeling looser, she pointed and flexed her feet a few more times before standing up, grabbing the jeans and lightweight striped sweater that she’d set out last night, and heading downstairs to grab some oatmeal before her shower. Everything was still quiet as she made her way down the hall. When she passed Bucky’s door, she let her fingers trail across it, hoping that Steve was getting a good night’s sleep despite everything that he’d been through.

The top step started to creak as she lowered her weight onto it, so Natasha reversed the trajectory of her toes, shifting their position two inches to the right next to the dark brown knot, before lowering her weight again. It was something that she’d learned out of necessity in the orphanage when she’d been little; how to move silently across the cold creaking boards in the middle of the night in order to steal scraps of food from the kitchen. Even after she’d found herself in a house with overflowing cupboards and a well stocked refrigerator, she’d never broken the habit. There was something about moving around unseen and unheard that made her feel powerful and in control. Plus, it was fun to sneak up on Bucky and scare the shit out of him at least once a week. Once, when he was in seventh grade, she’d snuck into his room in the middle of the night wearing an Obama mask, and had scared him so bad that he’d peed his pants. She knew that even all these years later, he still thought about it every time that he saw President Obama on TV. It was one of her greatest accomplishments.

When her toes hit step three, she made sure to move all the way to the left to avoid the loosest board. As she stepped down in silence, she wondered if Bucky had gotten any sleep on the couch? With the object of his affection hiding upstairs in his bedroom, he had to be freaking out!

Step five had to be skipped entirely because there wasn’t a spot that allowed silent passage... How the hell had Bucky ended up bringing Rogers here in the first place?

Step seven required placement of the foot dead center, so that the weight could sink into both sides of the board evenly...Truly, the events that led up to Rogers sitting in the middle of their kitchen, while her brother fretted like a worried mama bear and struggled with the freezer, had to be an amazing story.

The bottom step required a light touch, so Natasha couldn’t get overly excited that she was almost to the end and get careless. She had to gingerly place just the ball of her foot towards the front left wall and use the banister to support some of her weight, then she’d be home free to wake Bucky up by tickling his feet, and get the scoop firsthand.

“What the hell?” she asked the completely empty living room. Her eyes had to be playing tricks on her, because there was no way that the couch could _actually_ be empty! Taking another step forward, she confirmed that there was no illusion. There was, in fact, no Bucky on the couch. It was completely empty! Untouched empty! ‘Holy shit, Bucky’, empty!

Standing in the dark and talking to herself in an empty room, Natasha’s brain started rapidly turning, clicking, and registering a very shocking possibility. Oh, no. Oh, Bucky. Oh, fuck. There was no doubt that only a few minutes remained before their dad’s alarm clock started beeping, so Natasha reversed her path and ran back up the stairs as fast as she could without causing a single creak in the wooden boards. If her _suspicions_ about what was behind door number three were correct, then their dad was going to lose his shit when he woke up. Lose! His! Shit!  

Even though Steve had been dazed and confused in the kitchen last night, it had been impossible for Natasha to miss the little looks that he’d been shooting in Bucky’s direction whenever he thought her brother wasn’t looking. It hadn’t been until she’d seen those sad puppy dog glances, and the way that Rogers had dropped his eyes as soon as Bucky had looked his way, that Natasha had made the connection between all of the strange things that she’d observed at school all week...

First of all, Steve had been acting crazy since Monday, and everybody had been freaking out about it behind the scenes. Sam had caught up to Natasha Monday morning after first hour, going on and on about Steve acting like a lunatic around Bucky at practice. He’d tried to bribe her with a granola bar to get her to spill inside information about why Steve had such a huge problem being around her brother. She hadn’t needed or wanted a granola bar (but she took it anyway), had shrugged her shoulders as she’d shoved it in her purse, and told Sam that maybe Steve was weird around Bucky because he was gay, or liked Nirvana, or something. It had all been speculation, because, while she’d always gotten along with Steve, her brother had always been something that they didn’t really talk about. Sam had rolled his eyes, and had said, “You need to give me my granola bar back, that answer was completely useless.” She kept the granola bar.

Then, after third hour on Monday, Natasha had found herself crammed into a tiny bathroom stall with Peggy and Sharon, listening to another person freaking out about Steve Rogers. She’d patiently listened to Sharon crying about how Steve had dumped her at Ezra’s party Saturday night. As Natasha had handed Sharon another wad of toilet paper to blow her nose, Peggy had _very kindly_ said, “I warned you, darling, so there’s no reason to cry over something that was inevitable,” and Natasha had tried to balance out her callousness with a few comforting words. But Sharon had kept right on crying, and Natasha had continued to feed her even more pieces of toilet paper, and Peggy had jumped up to sit on the window ledge and had tapped her kitten heels against the tile wall impatiently. The truth of the matter had been that Natasha’d had no idea why Rogers had dumped Sharon...but when Bucky had bent over to pick up the frozen burritos that had slid across the kitchen floor last night, she’d gotten her first real clue. Even catatonic, Rogers had glanced at his ass.

Staring at Bucky’s closed door, and at his Queen poster, she felt like a complete idiot for not seeing it right away. After she’d somehow gotten Sharon to calm down and had sent her on her way, Natasha had been waiting in line to get her salad when she’d seen Rogers talking to Bucky and his friends at their lunch table in the corner. Even from across the cafeteria she had been able to tell that he’d had a nervous little hunch to his shoulders, and that Clint had been giving him a hard time (typical), but she hadn’t thought much about it, Bucky _had_ joined the team that morning so she’d assumed they’d been talking about swim team stuff…   

Throughout the week, Sam had told Natasha _all about_ Rogers storming into Fury’s office, full of righteous anger, and getting Brock and Jack suspended for picking on Bucky (which, her brother hadn’t said shit about), and kept pestering her with questions...but she’d been worried about her audition, and had been trying to ignore texts from a certain someone (who she’d been having a harder and harder time ignoring), so she’d blown Sam off.

But now, standing in the hall and staring into Freddy Mercury’s brown eyes, she had to admit that she’d failed to see how those events had added up to a much bigger picture until last night; when Rogers had stumbled into their kitchen leaning on Bucky’s shoulder for support. Natasha felt like an idiot (and a bad sister) for not seeing it right away. She’d known Steve a long time...long enough to know when he was hiding something (a lot of things)...but she hadn’t suspected that one of those hidden secrets was a thing for her brother. At least not until Rogers had been sitting in the middle of their kitchen, looking like he’d wanted a big Bucky hug. And that was the question of the day: Was Rogers getting a big Bucky hug behind this door?

Natasha slowly turned the handle, taking a deep breath before peeking her head around the door...and what she saw was _much_ more than a big Bucky hug.

Her idiot brother was going to be in the worst trouble of his entire life if he didn’t put on some pants _right this second!_

He was wrapped around Steve’s shirtless (and also pantsless) body like a totally naked octopus; legs and arms _everywhere_ . His messy mop of brown hair (cough: sex hair) was spread out all over Steve’s bare chest, and comically, a few strands seemed to be stuck to Steve’s face (by what bodily fluid, she _never_ wanted to find out). Natasha chuckled in complete disbelief, because she’d never expected to find a scene like this when she’d opened the door. Maybe some tentative spooning? Perhaps a hand lightly looped over a waist? But not this! Most of the comforter had fallen off of idiots, but thankfully the corner was covering Steve’s dick (barely, but it was something). The sight of Bucky’s full moon gleaming in the _actual_ moonlight was the perfect image to capture on her phone for future blackmail opportunities, but sadly, there wasn’t time.

She realized that she was feeling something like pride; big, heart swelling, ‘standing on the highest podium with a gold medal around her neck’ pride, that her brother had _somehow_ landed Steve Rogers. Natasha had always thought that Rogers was the perfect textbook example of nineteen-fifties nuclear family straight, but that was very obviously not the case anymore. Unfortunately, she didn’t have time to ponder how in the hell Bucky had gotten Steve Rogers to switch teams, because she had to focus on getting these idiots dressed!

Quickly tiptoeing into the room and gently shutting the door behind her, she noticed that Steve had Bucky’s purple and black bat pants tangled up around his ankles (which was weirder than the nudity) and that he was tipping towards Bucky just enough for her to get a perfect view of his ass peeking out from under the corner of the comforter. She kicked a pile of clothes out of the way, and tried not to laugh, because today would go down in history as the day that Natasha learned (in great detail) what Steve Rogers’ ass looked like. She had to admit that it was quite the specimen; perky, firm, round...Bucky obviously had very good taste (but she already knew that, didn’t she?) To top it all off, when she made it through the mess, she discovered that Steve was wearing one of Bucky’s creepy bunny slippers...just _one_.

“Huh, kinky,” she said to an audience of asses, then reached out and shook her stupid brother’s shoulder. “Hey, wake up.”

Bucky did not wake up.

“Come on, you’re gonna be in such huge trouble! Wake up!”

Since Bucky was a notoriously horrible morning person, Natasha knew that this whole exercise in trying to wake him up was completely pointless. Every single day it was the same struggle. She’d wake up early, bright eyed and bushy tailed, while Bucky would ignore his alarm until the very last possible second, hitting snooze a thousand times before he finally moaned, flailed his arms around like the morning had personally offended him, and then he would drag his ass around the house, bumping into walls and furniture, until their dad would shove him unceremoniously into the car. Putting up with morning Bucky until they made it to Starbucks every day was a real exercise in perseverance and patience. Since it was pretty obvious that Bucky and Steve had been doing god-knows-what until whatever o’clock in the morning, Natasha knew that her brother was going to be even worse than usual.

But this was an emergency situation, so she decided to try another tactic. “Rogers,” she hissed, poking him in his shoulder (which was so weird on so many levels). This close, Natasha could see that his face was horribly swollen and that it had turned all sorts of shades of black and blue overnight. Also, his forehead was inexplicably plastered with _way_ too many butterfly bandages. “Steve, wake up.”

His eyes popped open (actually only one eye, since the other one was pretty much swollen shut) and he moaned. Natasha almost laughed out loud when Steve turned his head... because yes...Bucky’s hair had indeed been stuck to Steve’s chin and lip by a mysterious substance. When he’d turned to figure out who the hell was dragging him from his peaceful slumber, the motion yanked on Bucky’s hair and woke his lazy ass up too...sort of.

“Ouch,” Bucky whined. “Woah, what...Nat? Fuck, I’m sleepin…” He snaked one naked octopus arm lower around Steve’s waist, tucking his fingers between Steve’s ass and the star sheets, and Rogers’ face suddenly registered the magnitude of what was happening. Every single one of his swollen features registered ‘oh, shit’ in the blink of an eye.

“Oh, shit,” he mumbled.

Yep, she called it.

“Oh, shit, is right boys. Looks like the two of you had heaps of fun last night, but dad’s gonna be up in about three minutes, and I don’t think you want him to crash this pantsless party. I don’t think this is what you want dad to see first thing in the morning...or _ever_...if we’re being honest.”

“Bucky.” Steve tapped at the messy mop of hair, that was nestled right in between his humungous pecs, with one finger; like he was poking at a wasps’ nest with a long stick. “Oh, shit.”

Eloquent. She leaned over and jabbed Bucky in the head herself, because there was no way in hell that the dipshit was gonna wake up from one hesitant finger poke.

“Mmm sleeping. Jesus,” Bucky mumbled.

“Where are his pants?” Steve gasped. He was staring at Bucky’s moonlit ass like he was about to throw up or pass out. It could go either way. Apparently, he was too polite to just throw Bucky off of him like any other logical person would do...which, yay for chivalry...but come on! Steve upped his game and tried using two fingers, hissing, “Bucky get up, you need pants!”

Natasha searched all around the floor, but in the dark each little mound of dirty clothes looked exactly the same. Bucky was such a slob! How was she so neat, and he was a living, breathing tornado of mass destruction? “I’ve gotta turn on the lamp,” she groaned. “I can’t see anything...except asses...I see _lots_ of asses.”

“They had Luke Skywalker.” Steve’s panic was increasing as he tried to slink his way up into a sitting position, but that brilliant move made Bucky’s head fall into his lap; _face first_ into his lap... _onto his dick_. “Ohhhh, shit. Bucky, oh god, Ummm…”

“Mmm sleeping. Shhh.”

Comedy gold. Natasha couldn’t make this stuff up if she tried. Really, all she could do was stand there in awe as Steve frantically looked around the room. She imagined that he was wildly debating with himself on whether or not he should lift Bucky’s head off of his dick. There were really only two options: one, Bucky’s face remained on Steve’s dick (not the best choice), or two, Bucky’s face did not remain on his dick (which meant that he was gonna give Natasha quite the show). Considering that she’d already been subjected to Rogers’ ass, she didn’t really need to experience the cock and balls too.

The poor guy was really struggling with his dick or no-dick decision. She tipped her head sideways and raised her eyebrows as Steve reached for Bucky’s hair, stopped, pulled his hands away, looked at the ceiling, reached for Bucky’s hair again...repeat. Eventually, after at least three cycles, Steve rejected both scenarios and went with option number three: trying to untangle the vampire bat pants from his ankles and then making a useless attempt to get them over his feet (and idiotically over the bunny slipper), so that he could pull them up over his ass _without_ moving Bucky’s head. Steve was either _really really_ dense or _really really_ polite. Either way, option number three _obviously_ wasn’t gonna work. The level of stupid that was happening right now was the stuff of legends.

“You know, Mark Hamill pants.”

Scanning the room, her eyes finally landed on Luke and Yoda sticking out between the foot of the bed and the green wall. Steve had obviously failed at his nonsensical plan three, only managing to get one leg over his ankle, and the other one totally stuck on the slipper in a big giant lump. Now he was just sitting there breathing fast and turning bright red. “Pants.” Was all that he seemed capable of saying; like there was some sort of short circuit in his brain that had limited his vocabulary to the word ‘pants’ and short phrases relating to the word ‘pants’.

She leaned over the bed, getting uncomfortably close to her brother’s ass, and snatched the stupid Star Wars pants out of the crack, before trying to untangle the inside-out legs. Their dad was literally going to be heading down the hall for his coffee at any second! How were these stupid pants so tangled!? She kept pulling them this way and that way, while stage whispering, “Bucky, I’m not fucking kidding. Wake your ass up!” She _finally_ got the damn pant legs fixed and shook them out. “Bucky, dad’s gonna kill you!”

“I’m going to kill him for what?” Phil said, as the door swung wide open.

Natasha froze, suspending Bucky’s Luke Skywalker pants up in the air like they were hanging from an imaginary clothesline, and estimated that Bucky might be ungrounded in time for graduation (if he got time served for good behavior). Steve was also frozen midway into his very awkward second attempt to yank the bat pants up over his knees, and now she was absolutely positive that the poor guy was gonna puke. Heaven help them all, because Bucky’s head was _still_ buried in Steve’s lap, his lily white ass was _still_ on display for all the world to see, and the look on their dad’s face very clearly said, ‘What the actual fuck, are you fucking kidding me?’ He might have been frozen like the rest of them, but Phil’s presence in the doorway was so silent that it was screaming.

Quickly analyzing the angle between their dad’s horrified eyes, and the ass/crotch/face/ass combo on the bed, Natasha _very slowly_ side stepped to the left with Bucky’s pajama pants dangling in the air to block the view. What a way to start the day: defending Bucky’s honor with an improvised ‘Star Wars’ sex shield.

Nobody said a word...for a full minute. Their dad was probably figuring out what kind of lock to buy for Bucky’s door, how much a tutor would cost so that he could be home schooled, and if chastity belts were legal. It was probably the most awkward minute of her life so far, but she did her sisterly duty and steadfastly held up her shield (even though her shoulder muscles were starting to burn). Bucky was gonna owe her so much for this one.. _so fucking much_.

Finally, Phil shook his head, like he was trying to erase the whole scene from his brain, and put on his parental mask of denial. Natasha watched with interest, as he seemingly convinced himself that this was some sort of weird mirage; a ‘super gay, my son is naked and sprawled out on top of the basically naked captain of the swim team’ mirage. Steeling himself, their dad looked Steve in the eye, and said, “Your face looks awful.” Then, glancing at his ribcage, where the giant dark purple and red bruises were already helpfully on display, he added, “And your ribs look painful. Can you go to school?”

For a guy conversing with the school principal, while said principal’s son’s face was plastered on his dick, Steve was remarkably calm. Natasha almost started laughing (because really, how could she not?) but she took pride in her ability to keep a straight face.

“Ummm, honestly I’d rather not. This will look…” He gestured to his face, then looked at Bucky’s sparkly disco ball and let out a sad laugh. “Uh, it will look better on Monday, and uh...I can’t really deal with all the questions right now. I can drive back to the penthouse... I’m sorry, let me just...” Steve dropped his eyes to Bucky’s head, and he turned an even deeper shade of red. “Um...I’m sorry, I’ll get out of your hair.”

And that was it, Natasha gave up. She’d tried her best to keep it together, she really had, but Bucky had dug himself a _really_ big hole and poor Steve Rogers had just walked right into it. She burst out laughing, surrendering completely, and tossed the pants over Bucky’s ass.

“Oh, Rogers,” she chuckled, “you mean _you’ll_ get out of _Bucky’s_ hair.” Nodding at Bucky’s wild mane spread across Steve’s hips, she quirked up the corner of her mouth before delivering the punch line. “Literally.”

Steve’s eyes got so wide that she thought they were going to burst.

“Natasha!” Her dad raised his hands to his face and started rubbing at his forehead. “You know what,” he started, “It’s too early for this, for _all_ of this, whatever _this_ is.”

“I’m sorry, I’ll just…”

“Steve, stop! You look horrible, and you _obviously_ didn’t get much sleep.”

Natasha snorted, and had to physically slap her hand over her mouth to hold in the laughter. The death glare that her dad shot at her almost got her to stop laughing (almost).

Her dad set his jaw before looking back at Steve’s face ( _just_ his face), and groaning, “Please, stop apologizing. We obviously need to talk about some things...” He glanced at Bucky’s head in Steve’s lap like it pained him, and sighed, “...a _lot_ of things. But we can do that after I get home. You can stay here today and rest, as long as you call someone and tell them where you are. And, against my better judgment, Bucky can stay home with you. But you both need to put on some clothes right now and _keep_ them on... _all day_. Do you understand?”

She’d never seen Steve look so embarrassed, and that included the time that Tony had filled up his locker with five-thousand colored condoms the day before Junior Prom. All of the wrappers had said, “Good luck losing your virginity, Steve!” and they’d poured out all over the hall just as the assistant principal had been walking by. This situation was so much worse.

“Yes,” Steve blurted, nodding way too many times. “Absolutely, sir. I’m sorry.”

“Steve, no more apologizing. We’ll talk about it later.” Phil raised his voice like he was talking to someone very far away, and yelled, “Bucky, did you hear me?”

“Mmm hmm.”

Her idiot brother mumbled that brilliant response into Steve’s lap, which was priceless because Steve’s eyebrows shot up to the ceiling, as he muttered, “ohhh, shit...”

Did their dad catch that!? Shifting her eyes, she said a silent prayer that he miraculously hadn’t; because no parent should _ever_ have to witness their kid humming on somebody’s dick. Thank god, Phil was still wearing his mask of denial.

“And we’re _all_ talking after I get home from school.” He turned to walk out the door, and Natasha swore that she could see his hair turning grey right before her eyes. Slipping into the hall, Phil mumbled, “What the hell did I do to deserve this?”

Natasha couldn’t resist yelling after him, even though she’d probably pay for it later. “So, this means that I can have a sleepover too right?”

“No. Nope. Coffee.” Was the only response that she heard as her dad practically ran down the stairs.

Leaning back against the door, she gave poor shell shocked Steve a cheeky grin. “Well, that was fun,” she snickered, before turning to leave. “Be good today, boys. Oh, and Rogers, you can go ahead and take Bucky’s head off of your dick now, unless, of course, that’s precisely where you want it to be.”

As she shut the door, she faintly heard Steve whisper, “Holy shit.”

Holy shit, was right.

 *****

 

 

The cacophony of sounds that drifted into Steve’s subconscious and pulled him from a deep languid sleep, were something that his brain remembered but couldn’t quite reconcile. He must still be dreaming...of rugged garbage men banging metal cans against curbs, of pigeons cooing through cracked windows, and of wailing sirens echoing in the distance...dreaming of someplace safe, someplace that he’d like to stay. The sirens increased in volume, a swelling crescendo that would normally trigger feelings of concern and worry, but in this dream they sounded like a long lost favorite song; its melody carrying him back to a place that felt like home.

But then Steve realized that he really had to pee, and that he was hungry, and that his head hurt, and that none of those basic human concerns were the stuff of dreams. So, how was it that he could still hear the rumbling engine of the garbage truck as it lurched forward, and the high pitched squeal of the brakes as it stopped just a few feet later? How could he still hear the soft noises of the pigeons echoing and overlapping one another? As the siren reached its undeniable peak and passed directly underneath the window, Steve opened his eyes to a new reality.

The curving contour of Bucky’s naked body came into focus, and it felt like Steve was still dreaming; a lucid dream, where he could manipulate the projection of his hand to stretch out its fingers and carefully touch the boy who _couldn’t possibly_ be lying next to him. Bucky had rolled away and he was sleeping on his side. He wasn’t touching Steve, but the warmth of the sheets proved that Bucky had been squeezed tightly up against him only minutes before. The thought of that contact, and the magnetic pull that had drawn them together without conscious choice, made Steve’s heart flutter in his chest. It was a pull that he didn’t understand... but did the moon understand why it circled the Earth? Did the Earth understand that the moon’s gravity controlled its tides? Did understanding matter when the symbiotic relationship was so natural?

With his back towards Steve, and his body stretched out to its full height so that his top leg was creating a gentle slope towards the mattress, Bucky looked like a Renaissance painting. The curves and dips created by his lean muscles were a subject worthy of Michaelangelo’s or Botticelli’s brush. Sunlight was filtering in through the window, illuminating the tiny dust particles in the air, and they seemed to be snowing down on top of the mountains created by Bucky’s defined shoulder, the organic curve of his waist, and the round arch of his hip. Steve itched to draw him. _Him_ . Well, that was going to take some getting used to. _Him_.

So, this was the morning after. Steve had never made it to this part, or had even fallen asleep with another person before last night; and passing out after one of Tony’s parties next to Peggy didn’t count, because he’d woken up and puked all over the floor at four in the morning. There had been nothing intentional about falling asleep in one of the guest rooms, and Peggy’d had to go find Sam to haul his ass into the bathroom so that Steve could sleep it off on the tile floor. The next morning Tony had been beyond pissed about the carpet, Peggy had been pissed in general, and Steve...well he’d been hungover. That had been his one experience with the morning after, and it had been awful on every level that something can be awful.

Most of his friends had less horrific experiences with the morning after, although there hadn’t been any glowing reviews. Sam had informed Steve that his few experiences with the morning after had been awkward, and that he didn’t really recommend it, while Ezra had advised Steve to always set an early alarm in order to sneak out undetected in the morning. Tony’s tales had been so over the top, that Steve hadn’t even taken them into consideration. Over the summer, Tony had claimed that he’d woken up handcuffed to a bed at the Waldorf Hotel with a vague recollection of a woman in leather wearing a police hat; and that he’d probably (regretfully) paid for that to happen.

There were many reasons that Steve had avoided the morning after like the plague...his broken dick, and his friend’s frightening stories, among them...but watching the subtle expansion of Bucky’s ribcage as he breathed, Steve didn’t feel awkward, regretful, or like he wanted to escape in the slightest.

Steve was freaked out ( _totally and completely_ freaked out), but not in any undesirable way. It was more like the feeling that he’d get whenever he was about to do something exciting. Like the adrenaline surge that he’d get climbing the ladder of a water tower in the middle of the night, his cans of spray paint clinking in his backpack as he stepped on each rung; preparing to tag it with explosions of color. Or the anticipation he always felt in his stomach as the car hovered at the top of the first hill on a giant roller coaster, the weight of his body pressing forward against the safety harness. He didn’t know what to expect when he was about to take the plunge, but that didn’t mean that he wanted to chicken out. Honestly, Steve didn’t know what he was feeling, but it definitely wasn’t awkward or weird.

What _had_ been awkward and weird was when Mr. Barnes had walked into the room at the crack of dawn, and he’d had to attempt to hold a conversation with him while Bucky had been breathing and mumbling all over Steve’s morning wood. That had been a nightmare...but that had nothing to do with what happened between them last night.

Steve rolled over so that he was almost spooning Bucky, mirroring his form but not quite touching him, and leaving just enough space to relish the magnetic pull that was tugging at his skin. As he shifted, the pain in Steve’s ribs made him wince, and he cautiously looked down to see how bad it was. It only took the smallest glimpse to determine that it was _really_ bad...and that was all that he was capable of acknowledging at the moment. Instead, Steve let his eyes trace the new horizon of Bucky’s naked body...it was a much better view.

There was a perceptible vibration in Steve’s fingers as his hands began succumbing to Bucky’s gravity. Giving himself permission to reach out and touch the tip of one index finger to the space between Bucky’s shoulder blades, he carefully fit it in between two vertebra. The pain in Steve’s head, and the mess that was his so called life were all wrong, but the way that his fingertip fit perfectly into the little notch on Bucky’s spine...that was just right.

But Steve _really_ had to pee, and he was _really_ hungry, and he _really_ needed some Tylenol (or a morphine drip), so he reluctantly and painfully rolled himself out of the star covered safe haven and lowered his feet to the floor. Even after the debacle with Mr. Barnes, one scary bunny had managed to remain nestled securely on his foot, but the other one was nowhere to be seen. As he pulled the vampire bat pants over his hips, Steve looked down at the contrast between his feet as they pressed into the beige carpet. His right foot was wrapped in fuzzy warmth, and the rough matted quality of the white and grey fur appealed to him in every way, while his left foot was cold and bare. The rich textures on the right made the emptiness of the left more evident. Fitting. He dug around for the missing slipper underneath the covers for a second, but he really didn’t want to wake up Bucky, so he grabbed a t-shirt off the desk and stubbornly snuck out of the room wearing only one.

Every step that he took made the fuzzy ears pop up and down in time with his movement, which only added to the surreal feeling as Steve trudged down the narrow hall to the bathroom. He knew that he’d been in this room last night, staring at himself in the mirror for a very long time, but Steve must have been in a daze, because now the walls contained only the faintest hint of deja vu.

Flipping on the light, Steve instantly felt overwhelmed by everything that he saw. Why did his mind do this to him? Why couldn’t he just take a piss like every other person in the world, without taking note of how everything...how every last detail of this room...said _family_? But his mind never shut up, and it saw meaning everywhere. It was both a blessing and a curse.

The bathroom was small, with an old fashioned pedestal sink and a small shower that had an _actual_ shower curtain. A pattern of tiny turquoise cartoons unicorns, flying through space with rainbows spreading out behind them, was splattered all over the plastic, and Steve _knew_ with absolute certainty that Bucky had picked it out. The thought of Mr. Barnes having to take a shower with seventy-five tiny cartoon unicorns staring at him every day made Steve chuckle. He poked one with his finger, tapping it’s little purple helmet, before tracing one of the rainbow paths past Jupiter and around to Neptune. Maybe later, Steve could take a warm shower with the unicorns? Maybe Bucky would like to join him?

Oh shit, that was a crazy idea. That was a crazy idea that just popped into his head like it was the most natural thing in the world. Behind the unicorns Steve could picture Bucky tipping his long hair back into the stream of hot, steamy water, the droplets pouring down over the skin of his back and how it would look running over his ass...shit. Steve laughed as he took a piss, and tried to aim his hard on into the toilet. Turquoise unicorns and Bucky’s ass...he cracked up as he flushed...because what the hell was even going on right now?

Turning on the sink to wash his hands, he caught sight of himself in the small mirror on the medicine cabinet and stopped laughing immediately. His right eye was almost swollen shut and _both_ eyes were a purple and red mass of bruising that spread outward from the bridge of his nose. Squinting, Steve touched his finger to the cut above his eye. Why were there so many butterfly bandages holding his forehead together? He vaguely remembered Bucky fighting to get the backings off of a bunch of Band-Aids, tugging them off with his teeth and spitting them all over the floor, before sticking his tongue out of the corner of his mouth as he concentrated on Steve’s forehead. But more than the action of Bucky’s hands, Steve remembered how it had felt to sit on the edge of the soft bed while Bucky had pulled his pieces back together; that cathartic feeling of healing. Staring at his reflection, Steve knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that Bucky had done a whole hell of a lot more than stick way too many white adhesive strips to his forehead.

His ribcage was barely visible at the bottom of the mirror, and the shape of Alexander’s fist was clearly imprinted in the center of the dark puddle of bruising. He hadn’t gotten it this bad since last December, when Alexander had found one of his sketchbooks that had fallen out of Steve’s backpack. Alexander had punched Steve hard enough in the stomach to make him double over from the pain and collapse onto the rug in front of the fireplace. But that hadn’t been enough to make up for Steve’s transgression, so Alexander had stepped on Steve’s fingers as he aggressively ripped out each page and fed them to the roaring holiday fire. Beneath the generic stockings that Jade had hung on the mantle, Steve hadn’t moved an inch as his precise drawings of the Alice in Wonderland statue in Central Park had passed over his head as they’d been flung into the fire. The tiny dormouse nibbling a treat at Alice’s feet, The Mad Hatter with the evening light carefully reflected on his bronze top hat, the young girl with the pigtails and the striped sundress who had climbed on top of the mushroom to rub her hands on Alice’s bumpy hair...every single pencil drawing had become fuel for Alexander’s fire and Steve had chosen to lie there and watch them burn.

Leaning towards the mirror, he let the tip of his nose touch the surface, and flashed back to his tiny Brooklyn apartment. The medicine cabinet in Steve’s childhood bathroom had been exactly the same...they even had the same chipped edges...but with his mother standing behind him in the reflection of their Brooklyn mirror as they’d brushed their teeth, Steve’s face had barely cleared the bottom. He’d to stand on his tiptoes to brush his hair and check his teeth as his mother had kissed the top of his head. Steve wondered where that happy eleven-year-old little kid had gone? Most of the time it felt like he’d never existed at all. He bent at the knees and tried to shrink himself down to find him, but even at the right height in the mirror he couldn’t make the two Steves correspond.

After his mom had started working for Alexander, and her golden blonde hair and effervescent personality had caught his eye, he’d quickly sucked her into his orbit with his lies and his charm. Maybe he’d loved her, and maybe she’d loved him, but once she’d gotten sick everything that had been hiding underneath the surface of Alexander Pierce’s personality had started to bubble and boil. Steve supposed that watching your beautiful new wife withering away to nothing, while all the money in the world could do nothing to save her, would raise some demons. And then, getting stuck with her son? Some young kid that he’d only known for a little over a year? Well, Steve had been smart enough to know that when Alexander had started hitting him, he’d been lashing out at the daily reminder Steve’s face represented; that Sarah Rogers was gone and Steve wasn’t.

After the elaborate, but very quick wedding, they’d moved into Alexander’s penthouse, where the mirror in Steve’s huge personal bathroom had stretched from the edge of the marble counter to the top of the nine foot ceiling. He remembered thinking that it was cool at first, but as soon as things had started to go south, he’d desperately missed everything about his tiny Brooklyn mirror and the homey space that it had occupied. Steve had missed the tiny silver rack where both he and his mom had squeezed their towels; they’d always been so crammed together that they were never dry by the next day. He’d missed seeing two toothbrushes in the holder, the tops sticking out at different angles, but originating from the same base. He’d missed having to stand up on his tiptoes to see himself in that little mirror...in Alexander’s big mirror he’d just looked _alone_.

Steve hit his head once against the mirror, then jerked it open and easily found a bottle of Tylenol. He took three, before closing the squeaky mirror without looking into it again. There was a ghost in the glass, and he couldn’t bear to look at her. When he turned around to leave, he couldn’t stop himself from focusing on the three towels crammed onto one silver bar, and his breath caught in his throat. One of them had SpongeBob surrounded by techno jellyfish, which he highly doubted belonged to Natasha or Mr. Barnes. It was stupid of him, but he let his hand drift up to touch the top of Bucky’s towel, and just as he’d suspected, the cotton was still damp. Squeezing the fabric, he turned back to the sink and there were three toothbrushes parked together in a green holder. He had to leave the room.

Making his way downstairs, the ears of the solitary bunny bounced up and down with each step, and Steve felt anxiety swelling in his chest. He wanted this. He couldn’t have this. God had totally fucked him over. His face hurt. It all hurt. He watched his feet as he walked down the creaky steps; bunny, no bunny, bunny, no bunny, and he wanted to cry because he didn’t want to go back to Alexander. He just wanted to stand here in this totally normal living room, or to sit on the totally normal couch, forever. Was that so much to fucking ask!? Steve started to feel dizzy, and his fingertips were going numb, and he knew that he had to calm down...calm the fuck down. Now! Breathe dammit...breathe!

Flopping onto the blue plaid couch, Steve could feel the obvious dip in the center when he sank into it. Deep breath...hold for ten seconds...blow it out slow...repeat. The sunken padding beneath his body made the tingling quickly spread up his wrists. Deep breath, hold for ten seconds... blow it out slow...repeat. He knew that the cushions had been crushed over time by the weight of family, and he started to cry; shaking sobs that came from somewhere deep... from a place that he’d been trying so fucking hard to ignore. Deep breath, hold for ten seconds, blow it out slow, repeat. Was his brain serious about this fucking couch!? It was just a dip in a goddamned piece of furniture! His nose was running and he was crying like a fucking idiot and it was making his head hurt even worse. Breathe. Breathe. Breathe. The weight of his life was a burden that was dragging him down to the bottom of the ocean like a rusty anchor, but the weight that had made the impression in this couch was the kind that keeps you grounded and keeps you alive. His temples started tingling and Steve knew that he was in trouble. Stop. Stop. Stop. Stop. Stop!

Find something to focus on. Both arms were completely numb and the tears wouldn’t stop pouring down his cheeks and he couldn’t fucking breathe and he knew he had to calm the fuck down. Find something to focus on. Find something to focus on. There was a pile of shoes that he could see in the hallway. Okay, shoes. Shoes. What did he see? Several pairs of polished dress shoes were lined up neatly against the wall. Black leather principal shoes. Brown leather principal shoes. Both were oxfords with a polished shine. Practical. Professional. Deep breath. What did he see? Next to them was an assortment of tiny delicate shoes. Little pink ballet flats with tiny roses stitched to the top. A tiny pair of Nike running shoes; black with red details. A pair of little brown leather boots; motorcycle style. Deep breath, hold for ten seconds, blow it out slow... repeat. Okay, good. Breathe. Focus. What did he see? Bucky’s beat up black and white Chuck Taylor’s, and the baby blue ones with the purple stains, and the red and white checkered Vans. What did he see? Bucky’s shoes thrown haphazardly on top of Mr. Barnes’ and Natasha’s neat little rows, just like the muscled limbs of Bucky’s body had been haphazardly thrown on top of him this morning. Deep breath, hold for ten seconds...blow it out...repeat.

Steve’s breathing started to slow and the tingling started reducing in intensity. Good. He let his mind linger there for a second; on the comforting image of Bucky spreading himself onto everything around him, and somehow, in this chaos, making everything better. Deep breath, hold for ten seconds...blow it out slow...repeat. The feeling in his hands had almost returned, the numbness receding, and he was finally able to take a breath that reached all the way down into his stomach. What could he feel? The way that Bucky had kissed him; slowly and filled with both questions and answers. Steve closed his eyes and felt the panic fading away to a level almost verging on normal. Deep breath... hold for ten seconds...blow it out slow...repeat... The way that he’d felt waking up next to Bucky; warm, safe, whole. Deep breath...relax... Relax... Warm... Safe... Whole... He allowed himself to sit there with his eyes closed, consciously breathing in and out for at least five minutes, until he could completely feel his fingertips and his heart rate had finally slowed. Steve rubbed his eyes and nose on Bucky’s t-shirt...which was gross...but he was too wiped out to care.

It took some time, but Steve actually felt better; sitting here on this couch with his eyes shut, thinking about Bucky, and pretending that he never had to leave.

When he finally opened his eyes, they landed on the wide oak mantle that was crammed with pictures. Steve could tell right away that they weren’t the empty, meaningless kind of photographs that he despised, these were something _real_ : young Bucky and Natasha standing awkwardly on either side of Phil and looking completely freaked out. He squinted to get a closer look and the background looked like it might be the orphanage in Russia. Natasha had told Steve about Mr. Barnes losing his wife, and how he’d taken action to create the family that he’d feared he’d never have otherwise. The choice to adopt two twelve-year-olds from Russia had been an unconventional solution, but Steve thought it was beautiful. He wondered what it must have felt like for Bucky and Natasha to suddenly be wanted like that? For a stranger to have gone through so much to make you part of a family? Steve felt a stab of jealousy.

A crumbling frame, made with macaroni noodles, held another photograph of the three of them at the same age; but instead of looking freaked out they were all sitting together on their Brooklyn stoop with yellow and orange leaves scattered around their feet and huge smiles on their faces. A brushed silver frame with a picture of Bucky gracefully diving into the water at the YMCA. A bleached wooden frame with Natasha dancing in her pointe shoes with her body partially obscured by the shadows created by a blue spotlight. A white frame, with little yellow smiley faces all over it, held a photo of Bucky arm in arm with Clint, Skinner and Daisy. Looking from photograph to photograph, Steve realized that every moment preserved on this mantle was about family. Honestly, he couldn’t think of a single picture in Alexander’s apartment, except the one from when Steve was eight-years-old, standing in front of the Ferris wheel at Coney Island with his mom. They were holding fluffy clouds of pink cotton candy, and smiling with the untarnished happiness that not knowing the future provides. Steve kept that memory tucked safely away under the corner of his bed. It was the only photograph that he had to remember her...

His stomach growled, then growled again, so Steve reluctantly left the worn down couch and moved to the kitchen. Images of bright red blood dripping onto the black and white checkered tiles popped into his mind, but he tried to shove them down and just find something to eat; to stay calm and have some breakfast. Rummaging through the cupboards, he found the perfect solution; a brand new box of Lucky Charms. He hadn’t eaten Lucky Charms in forever! Steve grabbed the milk out of the fridge, then opened the freezer to grab ice for his head (because it hurt like a son of a bitch) and got attacked by a barrage of frozen burritos. It was only by the grace of god, that he managed to tap dance around the burrito bombs as they landed all around his feet, and also catch the falling ice tray with his free hand. Chuckling, as he tried to balance everything, Steve knew that Bucky was the culprit. Even sound asleep upstairs Bucky had somehow still managed to make Steve smile. Maybe if a burrito had smashed his toe, he wouldn’t be smiling quite as big...actually, he probably still would be grinning ear to ear. He carefully put everything back in the freezer so it would be safe to open, grabbed a bag of frozen corn, then sat himself down at the little checkered table with his breakfast supplies.

When Steve poured the cereal, the colored marshmallows floating around the bowl made him think of Bucky (it seemed like everything was making him think about Bucky) and that first day on his secret rooftop. The sugary pastels reminded him of Bucky’s golden crown, adorned with sparkling pink and purple jewels, and Steve found himself carefully maneuvering three pink hearts and three purple horseshoes onto his spoon. Seven days ago, would he have imagined himself stupidly smiling at tiny marshmallows in bowl of stolen cereal? No, he laughed, not in a million years.

The sudden sound of Bucky clearing his throat startled Steve out of his leprechaun fantasy and he dropped the spoon on the table, splashing milk and marshmallows everywhere. Bucky was casually leaning against the doorframe with his arms crossed and an amused smile on his face. His hair was sticking up everywhere and he was wearing a ‘Knife Party’ t-shirt, which Steve thought was extremely cool, and his legs were wrapped in Grumpy Cat pants, which Steve _also_ thought was extremely cool. Huh, maybe he thought that _everything_ about Bucky was extremely cool?  

“I got worried that you woke up and made a run for it, but I guess you're just busy eating all of my cereal and stealing my frozen vegetables.”

Steve looked guiltily at the overflowing bowl...he hadn't realized that he'd poured so much.

Bucky pushed off the door and laughed, “I'm just kidding, Cinderella. Here, I found your glass slipper.” Sauntering over, he dropped the missing bunny on the floor next to Steve’s bare foot, then grabbed the spoon and shoveled a huge bite of Lucky Charms into his mouth. Bucky didn’t wait to swallow, before mumbling, “I guess that means I’m Prince Charming or something.”

Steve felt so happy seeing that missing bunny on the floor and immediately grabbed it with his toes to maneuver his foot into it. It was stupid, but something about it made him feel calm. He managed a sheepish little smile at the crazy boy in front of him, before accidentally bumping into the bowl and knocking a bunch of cereal and milk over the edge onto the tablecloth.

Raising his eyebrows, Bucky spun around to grab his own bowl and spoon, before plopping down across from Steve. “So…” he chuckled, pouring his own heaping bowl of delicious Lucky Charms.

“So...” Steve didn’t know if he should keep eating the stolen cereal, or apologize, or...

“My ‘Boston’ shirt looks good on you.” Bucky was grinning at him, and it was full of sunshine and blue moons, purple horseshoes and red balloons, pink hearts with green clovers, and orange stars with tiny rainbows. How could a smile look so delicious?

That smile chased away every last hint of panic and anxiety that had been lingering around Steve’s edges, and he could actually feel Bucky’s positive energy washing over him. Watching as he started shoveling giant bites of cereal into his mouth, it became crystal clear that Bucky’s sunshine smile, the mounds of sugary cereal, and his warm, genuine concern were all gifts that were being handed to Steve freely.

For that, Steve was grateful... and he wanted Bucky to know, so he said, “Thank you.”

“For the t-shirt? Don’t mention it. ‘Boston’ is an underrated eighties gem if you ask me.” Bucky took another huge bite of cereal, this time full of green four leaf clovers.

“No, Bucky, I mean thank _you_.”

“For dressing you in awesome clothes and scary bunny slippers like my own giant Ken Doll?” he laughed. “My pleasure.”

“No, for everything. For _this_.” Steve gestured at the marshmallows, the spilled milk, the checkered tablecloth, and the entire sunshine filled kitchen. He wanted to make Bucky understand how much all of this meant to him.

“The Lucky Charms?” Bucky stared at Steve like he was confused, but he subtly shifted his eyes to the left and gave himself away. He was playing dumb, and Steve wasn’t going to let him get away with it.

“Thank you for taking me home.”

The first hint of uncertainty flashed across Bucky’s face, like Steve had stripped him of the protection that jokes and ‘Boston’ t-shirts provided, and there was no place left for him to hide. Bucky offered a weak smile, and whispered, “It's okay, Steve.”

Jesus, Steve didn’t want him to feel like that! Sunshine should never doubt the warmth it creates with its rays. “Bucky...”

“Yeah?” He set his spoon down on top of a pile of spilled oats, and looked directly at Steve; like he was waiting for confirmation that this whole thing wasn’t some sort of horrible mistake in Steve’s eyes.

“I mean it.” Steve felt his heart swell as he reached across the checkered table, past the overflowing bowls of Lucky Charms, and ran his finger up Bucky’s left arm. He was mesmerized as he watched the tiny hairs stand up before his eyes. “Thank you, Bucky.”

And that brought back the sunshine smile...which Steve actually loved a little.

Bucky giggled, and traced his own fingers up Steve’s arm like a reflection. “You’re welcome.”

There was something inside of Steve that felt like he was ten-years-old when he touched the edge of Bucky’s sleeve, and blurted out, “Hey, can we finish this entire box of cereal?”

Bucky cracked up, and shoved his silver spoon back into the mountain of brightly colored marshmallows. “Hell yes, we can!”

*****

 

Johnny Rotten’s Cooler Cousin: where the fuck r u bro?

Bucky: home eating Lucky Charms

Pushing Daisies: u sick honey?

Not Dylan O’Brien: he’s ditching

Bucky:  I’m not alone

Johnny Rotten’s cooler cousin: that sounds like u’ve got a serial killer in ur house. U need 911?

Not Dylan O’Brien: porn doesn’t count as a friend Bucky.

Pushing Daisies: ??????

Bucky: Steve Rogers just ate an entire box of Lucky Charms at my kitchen table.

Johnny Rotten’s cooler cousin:  …..

Not Dylan O’Brien: …..

Pushing Daisies: R u 4 real!!!!!!?

Bucky: and he’s wearing my pants

Johnny Rotten’s cooler cousin: …..

Not Dylan O’Brien: I don’t know how to respond right now.

Pushing Daisies: what!!!!!!!!!!??????

Johnny Rotten’s cooler cousin: ok i’ve recovered. the real question is did u get IN those pants?

Bucky: maybe

Johnny Rotten’s cooler cousin: no fking way!

Not Dylan O’Brien: no fucking way

Pushing Daisies: I knew he liked you!!!!!!!!!!!

Bucky: shhhhhh don’t tell ANYONE ANYTHING

Not Dylan O’Brien: he started speaking French right? And you attacked him?

Bucky: shut up. Lol. ttyl

Johnny Rotten’s cooler cousin: get it cupcake!

Bucky: shut up Clint ;)

 

Bucky looked up from his phone, when Steve wandered back into his messy bedroom (which looked even worse in the daylight) with a quizzical look on his face. He wondered if Steve considered taping lots of shit up on the walls, putting even more shit on the shelves, adding additional shit on top of every available surface, and then throwing clothes all over the place (for color accents) to be appropriate interior decorating? Martha Stewart wasn’t gonna be impressed, but it had a certain vibe and that had to count for something. Bucky sent one final text to Clint, before dropping his phone on the bed and chuckling.

Steve sat his cute ass down in the pink desk chair (jesus christ, Steve was still here!) and poked at Bucky’s realistic, super sexy Jared Leto Joker figurine. ‘Suicide Squad’ sucked, but the Joker did not! The way that he was running his fingers along the Joker’s plastic abs, made Bucky wonder if he subconsciously agreed. Steve poked Jared’s tattooed stomach, and asked, “What are you laughing at?”

Oh...well, that was a super awkward question. Bucky pulled his knees up under his chin and leaned back against the wall. The answer, ‘well, you know, Steve, I was just telling my three best friends that I totally got in your pants last night’, probably wasn’t gonna fly. No, he definitely couldn’t say that...jesus. Tapping his fingers on the back of his phone case, Bucky tried vague. “Oh, my friends are idiots, you know, the usual. I was just texting them to explain why I’m not at school.”

Steve flipped Jared upside down, dangling him by the stand, and looked taken aback by that answer. He swallowed a few times before tapping Jared’s perfectly gelled green hair three times on the desk, then _casually_ asked, “So, what did you tell them?”

And that right there, was the _worst_ fake casual act that Bucky had ever seen. What a shit actor!

“It’s okay, Steve. I just told them that you were here devouring my Lucky Charms. They won’t say anything, I swear.”

Jared ended up on his side, and Steve nervously started tapping his pretty little psychotic head against the edge of the desk. “Did you tell them that I got beat up?”

“Dude, don’t hurt my Joker. Take out your frustration on something less expensive and less hot,” Bucky chuckled. Steve dropped Jared on the desk like he was on fire (which was the right move because Bucky took Jared Leto _very seriously_ ). With Jared safe, Bucky made a second attempt at denying that he had a huge fucking mouth. “No, seriously, Steve, that’s none of their business, I just said that you ate all my cereal.”

Steve raised his eyebrows in the universal signal for ‘ _and_ …’

God, maybe Bucky was a shit actor too? He did get kicked out of that community play at the YMCA when he was in eighth grade...but that was probably because he’d decided to ‘wing it’ instead of memorizing any of his lines. The director hadn’t appreciated his passion for improv.

He was staring at Bucky with a look so powerful that he completely caved. “Fucking fine, I may have _implied_ that there were some sexual relations that may, or may not have taken place...maybe...but they won’t say shit. I swear.”

Steve’s jaw did the thing; the slightly jutting forward thing that Bucky had already learned meant that he was pissed. Fuck, Steve was pissed! Why did he always have to open his big fucking mouth!?

“Bucky, I don’t even know what’s going on here. I’m not ready for all that.”

Great, he was an asshole...an overexcited asshole. Dammit, dammit, dammit. “Steve, I swear, they’re the most trustworthy people in the world.”

Steve snatched up Jared again and bounced his preciously insane head on his thigh like a drumstick. “You’re telling me that Clint Barton is trustworthy?”

Bucky didn’t hesitate when he answered, “I’d trust him with my life.”

The breath that Steve sucked into his lungs seemed to go on and on, as he stared at Bucky with his x-ray goggles of truth (and thankfully stopped abusing poor Jared). He was working his jaw of judgment, while staring at Bucky like he was making some huge decision. Bucky really felt like he’d fucked up big time. Had he fucked up big time? Not even twenty-four hours with Steve and he’d already blown it all to hell with his big, huge, stupid mouth. Fuck.

Suddenly, Steve blew out every last bit of the air, releasing the tension in his jawbone of wisdom, and gave Bucky his verdict. “I can’t believe that you told your friends about my Lucky Charms addiction. Those pastel marshmallows are worse than heroin...not that I’d know what heroin’s like...but I’d imagine that the euphoric effects are pretty similar.”

What!? There was a twinkle in Steve’s stupidly gorgeous blue eyes, and jesus, Bucky felt so fucking relieved. He even managed his own witty retort (because he was a witty guy). “Will I have to do an intervention after I find you mainlining purple horseshoes in the corner of the bathroom?”

“Awww, you’d care enough to drag me back from my uncontrollable pink heart addiction?”

“Yeah Stevie, I would.”

Oh, fuck. Bucky thought that he’d gone to far with the nickname, but then Steve smiled and carefully set his treasured Sexy Joker back in his designated spot next to Harley Quinn (her booty shorts in Suicide Squad? _Sooo_ sexy), then kicked his legs up on the bed and tipped his chair back.

Bucky would almost say that Steve looked completely at home when he said, “Shucks Buck, you really know how to make a guy feel special.”

“Well, you _are_ special.”

Bucky slapped his hand across his forehead (total facepalm), because that was _sooo_ fucking sappy. Why did his big mouth have to blurt out something so sappy!? Everything was all ‘Trainspotting’ and ‘Intervention’ humor, and then Bucky had to go and mess it up by being a sappy sap sap. But Steve was looking up at him through his long lashes, and giving him an adorably shy little smile, so maybe a little sappy sap sappiness was okay...maybe all of this was okay?

There was something about Steve’s cute little grin that made it totally cool that Bucky was about to be grounded for the rest of his life because of their naked slumber party. And when Steve let his bunny foot sneak closer on the bed, he realized that it was probably okay that Bucky had kissed, touched, licked, and tasted the beautiful guy sitting in front of him (which he still couldn’t believe). Rubbing his bare foot up and down the bottom of the slipper, Bucky just wanted to kiss him again...actually, scratch that. He wanted this whole crazy thing to become _so much more_ than kissing and sexy times, because Bucky really did think that Steve was special. This _whole thing_ was special!

Fuck, Bucky might as well just throw it all out there. He tugged on one of the bunny ears with his toes, pulling it off Steve’s foot so that he could touch their bare feet together. The skin on skin contact gave Bucky that little extra boost of bravery that he needed. “Okay, I’m gonna go ahead and break the ice on this whole situation. This is pretty fucking weird, right? I mean, this is the most words that we’ve ever spoken to each other in a row, and we _totally_ put our dicks in each other’s mouths last night.” Bucky slid his big toe right up the center of Steve’s foot and gave him the patented Sex Stare.

Steve snorted, and started turning a bright shade of pink (like a pig? Was that a good comparison?), before he stuttered, “Yeah, it’s, um...it’s pretty weird, but not bad weird.”

“Should we completely ignore the weird and just kinda roll with things?”

Kicking off the other bunny so it flipped into the air, Steve caught it one handed, then nibbled on his bottom lip with his own version of the sex stare. “I think that sounds like a great plan,” he chuckled, before petting the scary bunny like it was a sleepy house cat.

Bucky grabbed the other one off the comforter and followed suit. It was surprisingly soothing. If a slipper could be so comforting, maybe Bucky should get a real cat? A big fat one with stripes who was too lazy to do anything except getting it’s fat belly rubbed by it’s kind and generous human companion. He wondered if Steve liked cats, then got a brilliant idea. “So Stevie, do you feel good enough to play a game?”

“Like Monopoly?”

“No,” Bucky laughed, tossing his surrogate kitty at Steve’s lap. Oh, this was gonna be good. With complete and total seriousness, he looked Steve right in the eye, and said, “Like Dungeons and Dragons.”

Steve started petting his cat/bunny in double time, desperately trying to hide his reaction. Bucky felt a little evil (just a smidge), but it was truly hilarious watching poor Steve’s wheels turning. Was he picturing Bucky with his Polyhedral Dice, weaving tales of remote villages being viciously attacked by Orcs and burnt to the ground, while Bucky hunkered down in a dusty basement for hours and hours on end, eating pretzels and peeing in empty bottles with Clint and Skinner? He was really tempted to let Steve stew in nerd land and think that Bucky was deadly serious about Wizard role play, but the poor thing looked really lost.

“Dude, I’m fucking with you,” Bucky cracked up and kicked at Steve’s cute little toes. “What are you, like ninety? Monopoly? Jesus. C’mon, climb up here on this bed with me and tell me something that I don’t know about you.”

“Ummm.” Steve looked kinda confused.

It was a very simple game, but maybe Steve really did play Monopoly and Scrabble for fun on Sunday nights? Picturing Tony Stark and Sam Wilson playing Scrabble, and arguing about Tony’s genius level twelve letter words, was even funnier than the D&D scenario.

Steve carefully climbed onto the bed, leaned against the opposite green wall underneath his Iggy Pop poster (best rock attitude in history), and squished his feet on top of Bucky’s in the middle. When Steve pressed down it made Bucky feel all floaty, like the fizzy bubbles that hissed when you cracked open a cold can of pop. God, he wanted to feel like this forever...

But Steve still looked bewildered, so Bucky piped up, “Here, I’ll go first. The idea is that you reveal something about yourself that the other person doesn’t know. Since the only things that I really know about you are that you’ve pretty much been a dick to me for the past three years, that you can swim like a motherfucker, and that you’re a quick study on blowjobs, this should be pretty easy.”

“Oh my god, Bucky.” Steve covered his black and blue face with his hands and laughed.

“No…” Bucky moaned, “ _oh my god, Steve_! Like really, wow. You took me down like a pro.” He kicked Steve’s foot, then grinned. “But seriously...here goes nothing. You ready?”

Steve peeked out between his fingers and giggled. Straight up giggled! “Maybe?”

“Good enough,” Bucky started, scooching up a little straighter. “I love to sing...like _really_ sing... almost any type of music, you name it, I’m down. Clint and I play guitar, even though he’s _way_ better than me, and we rock out all the time. Clint’s love for eighties metal and grunge means that I can do a killer Axl Rose _and_ a pretty legit Eddie Vedder, but I’m equally comfortable with Bruno Mars and Twenty One Pilots. And since this game is all about honesty, I’m gonna admit that I can also sing the hell out of a Lady Gaga power ballad. That makes me pretty much the most ridiculous companion you could ask for on a road trip, and I’m the annoying guy that nobody invites to Karaoke because he thinks that he’s performing at Radio City Music Hall every time he touches the microphone. That’s me. And...this is the important part…” Bucky gave Steve the _important_ eyes because this was some serious business right here. “If you’re gonna hang with me, you _have_ to participate in ‘The Morning Sing-along’. It’s mandatory.”

“The morning sing-along?”

“No excuses.” Bucky tried to gracefully hop off the bed, but his foot got caught in the comforter, and he did more of a belly flop, stop, drop, and roll maneuver. So sue him, he was excited. He knew the exact song that he wanted to serenade the cute blonde guy in his bed with (dream come true) and started messing with his computer to pull it up. “Rule number one: you can’t laugh at me, and if you do, it better be because I’m funny as fuck. Because I _am_ hilarious...this is not up for debate.” He glanced at Steve to see if he was taking his rules seriously, but his raised eyebrows did not definitively answer that question. Whatever, good enough. “Rule number two: you _have_ to sing along, even if you don’t know the words.”

“But if I don’t…”

“Then you sing even louder,” Bucky interrupted, hitting play and hopping back on the bed so that the mattress bounced underneath them. Luckily, he didn’t fall over like an idiot this time. “Now, I’ve chosen this song especially for you, because I think this is _exactly_ how we should spend our day. This, Steve Rogers, is a true classic by the great Lionel Richie from the super groovy year 1977 when he was makin’ super smooth jams with The Commodores.”

Bucky was _feelin’ it_ as the glorious sounds of the kickass piano melody filled the room (it was hard not to, with the speakers turned up mega loud). He settled back against the wall, yelling over the intro, “Even though today’s Friday, I think that we should totally pretend like it’s Sunday and really take this song to heart. Ignore the first verse, ‘cause it’s talking about dumping a chick...which _obviously_ doesn’t pertain to our Sunday morning plans...but the rest of the song is all pancakes and reading newspapers in your pajamas, which is _totally_ what we need to do!”

He didn’t share his rock star aspirations with many people, so Bucky gauged Steve’s reaction closely as he started to sing. For some reason, he really wanted Steve to know the kinds of things that Bucky liked, and what he did in his spare time, and how much he loved Frappuccinos, and that he _loved_ Lionel Richie! If Steve really opened his ears and heart to Lionel’s very important Sunday morning message, maybe it could help him understand how bubbly and fizzy Bucky was feeling. Ugh, sappy...whatever. Music was it for Bucky; he never felt more alive than when he was singing or dancing, so he crossed his legs, took a deep breath, and serenaded the hell out of the hunky guy in his bed.

At first Steve’s eyes got really wide, as Bucky allowed his smooth alto to slide over the notes of the first verse, but as soon as the chorus hit (with their detailed instructions for the day) Steve started to grin. And it wasn’t a little tiny ‘I’m humoring you’ smile...nope, it was a big happy Sunday morning coffee with cream and sugar kind of smile. That inspired Bucky to wave his hands back and forth in the air, popping his head from side to side, as he sang, “That’s why I’m easy... easy like a Sunday morning.”

Steve reacted a little differently to the second verse than Bucky had expected; his eyes started to look misty as his face expressed something like awe. Tears welled up as Bucky sang, “Why in the world would anybody put chains on me? I’ve paid my dues to make it. Everybody wants me to be what they want me to be. I’m not happy when I try to fake it.” But his smile never wavered.

The bridge was Bucky’s favorite part of the song, and he always imagined himself with a giant afro and some pimped out shades when he sang, “I wanna be high, so high. I wanna be free to know the things I do are right. I wanna be free.” Steve must have been feeling the seventies vibe, because he started waving his hands back and forth too. Bucky felt pretty damn accomplished.

He tried really hard to get Steve to sing the backup part at the end, but the punk kept shaking his head and laughing. Bucky yelled, “Squidward….” Nothing. “...Good!” then cracked up for the key change.

As the song faded out, leaving Lionel’s wisdom hanging in the air, Bucky kicked Steve’s toes again, and chuckled, “We've gotta work on that buddy. The Morning Sing-along is a requirement if you’re gonna hang out with me.”

Steve looked like he wanted to say something, but at the same time he seemed like he was too overwhelmed to say anything at all. Wow, did Bucky suck? Did he need auto-tune? Did Steve have a problem with Lionel Richie? Because that would be a deal breaker...

“Wow, Bucky, I had no idea.”

“Yeah, that’s the point of the game, dingdong.”

Steve swallowed, and did the sheepish Steve thing again. Bucky liked it.

“No,” Steve stuttered, “I mean, you’re really talented...and I just...wow…I don’t know...um...”

Bucky was a nice guy, so he decided to save Steve from whatever he was trying to say but couldn’t. He could tell that Steve liked Lionel Richie, and that was good enough for him. “Okay Steve,” he interrupted, “your turn. I just revealed my ‘American Idol’ worthy talent, no, I think I’d fit in better on ‘The Voice’... I’d totally want Miley Cyrus to be my coach. I picture you more with Adam Levine...Anyway, don’t skimp on me now, Steve. Tell me something awesome about yourself that I don’t have the foggiest idea about.”

The grand mystery that Steve Rogers might reveal had Bucky on the edge of his seat, or the edge of the bed...not really the edge because he was in the middle...jesus, he was just really fucking curious! Could Steve _actually_ juggle (without stabbing his friends)? Maybe he had a secret tattoo on his ass? Bucky hadn’t gotten the full view of that side of Steve yet (keyword... _yet_ ), so he _could_ have a little star or something hidden on the perfect round curve of his beautiful, perfect, sexy, delicious, scrumptious ass. Maybe he would let Bucky draw one on his booty with a sharpie? That would be hot.

Steve’s forehead had little wrinkles on it, and it seemed as though he was either really contemplating his choices or he was super confused. He started nodding to himself, like he was psyching himself up before a race. Bucky could almost hear the splash of the pool water as Steve said, “Okay, but you have to trust me for a minute. Can you do that?”

“I mean, you didn’t sing along with me, which means that you already have one strike against you,” Bucky chuckled, “but I’m a generous dude, so I’m pretty that sure I can give you another shot.”

Steve clambered off the bed, groaning as he twisted his ribs, then started rooting around Bucky’s messy desk until he came up with a few sheets of wrinkled copy paper and a pencil. Were they gonna play tic-tac-toe or something? Was Steve an expert at making paper airplanes? Origami? Maybe he was gonna make Bucky one of those paper crane things?

“Okay,” Steve started, bouncing on the balls of his feet. “Ummm, I’m pretty nervous about this, but I really wanted to do this when I woke up this morning...and since you’re asking, I thought maybe…”

“Steve, spit it out. I trust you.”

“Okay, please take your clothes off.”

Bucky almost choked on his spit, because what!? “Okay... that’s _not_ what I was expecting you to say.”

“No, no, no, it’s not...I’m not trying to...ugh, I said that too fast.” Steve turned a bright shade of red (like a tomato? Was he that red?), and Bucky could tell that Steve hadn’t asked him to get naked because he was trying to fuck him or something, so he rolled with it. Easy like Sunday morning, right? While Steve kept on stammering, and got even redder (what’s redder than a tomato?), Bucky casually crawled off the bed...he might even say that he pulled off _sexily_ crawled off the bed... then slowly pulled his t-shirt up over his head.

Steve instantly stopped rambling and stood there with his mouth hanging open, as Bucky dropped the shirt by his feet. It made Bucky feel empowered, or beautiful, or something... so he kept right on going...slowly hooking his thumbs underneath the waistband of his Grumpy Cat pants and sliding them down his legs to add them to the pile. He took in a really deep breath, because being naked like this felt really... _naked_ . It was a totally different feeling than last night; when he’d had the covers wadded up next to him, only moonlight showing Steve all of his bits, and he’d been sprawled out on his back so that everything hadn’t been on HD display all at once. Standing here, with a soft dick, and every single part of him visible in the sunlight, Bucky felt more bare than he ever had in his life. Steve was leaning back against the desk looking at him...at _all_ of him...and studying Bucky like he was a statue or something. The way that his eyes were carefully roaming up and down his body made Bucky feel exposed, but not uncomfortable. The curiosity to find out what Steve was going to do next won out over any sense of embarrassment.

“Wow, Bucky, okay...thank you,” Steve finally said, before blowing out a really long breath and flexing his fingers. “Will you please lay on your side at the edge of the bed, facing the wall?”

Well, that was oddly specific. “You aren’t planning on sticking that pencil up my ass or anything, right?”

“Why? Is it tight enough to sharpen it?”

What!?

Steve gasped, and his eyes got huge...extra huge (like an owl, or a sugar glider)... and Bucky’s mouth dropped open again, because what!? “Oh shit, Bucky,” Steve stammered, “I don’t know why I just said that! Oh my god, that was horrible!”

Wow, who would have guessed that Steve Rogers was hiding a dirty sense of humor under all of that perfection? Bucky wanted to _encourage_ that shit! Grinning, he climbed onto the bed as requested, settling on his side, before looking over his shoulder and licking his lips. “Wouldn’t you like to find out?”

He cracked up, because he was certain that whatever weird shit Steve was up to didn’t involve shoving number two pencils in Bucky’s asshole.

“Oh, good god, can we just pretend that I didn’t say that?”

“Nope. Every time I sharpen a pencil for the rest of my life, I’m gonna think about this moment.”

“Well, _I’m_ going to pretend that I didn’t say it.” Steve moved over to the edge of the bed, and leaned over Bucky to start grabbing pillows. “I’m going to move you a little bit, and I want you to stay exactly where I put you. Okay?”

Wow, that was bossy, and Bucky was getting pretty turned on, _and_ he was super confused... but then Steve’s hands started touching different parts of his body; gently pulling his fingers through Bucky’s long hair and spreading it over the pillows in a certain way, lifting his feet to put more pillows underneath them, grabbing his thigh and shifting his leg so that it fell over onto the bed, and turning his shoulders so that his left arm was dangling off the edge...and Bucky felt like he was floating. Finally, Steve ran his hand along the top edge of Bucky’s body, but it wasn’t in a sexual way; it was more like he was appreciating him, studying him, while tracing the line of his body with his fingers.

“Good, Buck, that’s perfect. Stay just like that for me.”

The bed shifted as Steve stepped away, and Bucky wondered if someone had slipped a little something extra into his Lucky Charms. He felt like he was high; the good kind of high, where you drift around on puffy clouds and totally dig the colorful way that flowers look, while you eat marshmallow Rice Krispies treats straight out of the pan. Bucky loved the sound of Steve’s voice telling him he was good, and jesus christ, he wasn’t gonna move one millimeter if it got Steve to say that shit again.

He heard Steve rustling things around on his desk, followed by the scratching noises of a pencil...holy shit! Steve was drawing him! Was Steve an artist? He wasn’t in any art classes! Every part of Bucky wanted to roll over to see what Steve was doing, but he did exactly as he was told and didn’t move an inch. Wow. Wow, Steve was drawing him like a French girl! Wait, Rose wasn’t the one who drew the picture! Whatever, Bucky was the captain of this ship now, and in his movie Jack could be the model.

“Hey Stevie, you should’ve put a big, blue heart shaped diamond around my neck.”

“Didn't know that was an option, or I would have,” Steve snickered, before going silent.

Huh, Steve was actually pretty funny. Funny Steve Rogers. He liked that idea. Bucky started to doze off to the soothing sound of the pencil scratching, the paper rustling, and the eraser erasing, while he got really into imagining that he was as a very naked Leonardo DiCaprio sensually posing on an antique couch.

The weight returning to the bed meant that Steve was finished doing whatever he’d been doing, and that he was about to reveal some great pumpkin secret. Bucky felt really honored, despite being weirdly naked. Papers floated over his head, landing on the sheets right in front him, and Bucky found himself face to face with a full length drawing of his buck-ass naked body. Steve reached over Bucky’s shoulder to carefully line up the two sheets so that Bucky could see the whole image.

Wow.

Bucky blinked his eyes a couple times because he _was_ in Art Class, and this obviously wasn’t the work of someone who just fucked around with a pencil every once in awhile for fun. This was some real deal artist shit! Steve had sketched the contours of Bucky’s muscles, capturing every gesture of his pose with bold, confident lines; the protrusions of his skeleton, the folds of the comforter, the contrast of his dark hair, and jesus, he’d made Bucky’s ass look awesome! Was his ass really that hot? Steve had made his ass look better than Jake Bass’ glorious booty, and that was really saying something! The drawing was traditional, like Michaelangelo or DaVinci (Ms. Jaeger would be proud that her Art History lessons had sunk in), and Bucky had _never_ seen anyone his age draw anything like it! Not just that, but Steve had done it on two pieces of copy paper...with a number two pencil...in thirty freakin’ minutes!

“Steve, this is fucking amazing! Look at how hot you made me look! Look at my ass! I had no idea that you could draw like this! Or draw at all, really.”

“Nobody does,” Steve whispered, bending over to grab Bucky’s ‘Knife Party’ shirt off the floor. Steve ran his fingers down Bucky’s arm, like he really thought that his punk ass belonged in the Greek and Roman atrium at the MOMA, then carefully pulled Bucky up by the hand. As soon as he dropped his naked legs over the edge of the bed, Steve slipped the shirt over Bucky’s head (which was weird in the most wonderful way), then grabbed his pants and legitimately held them out so that he could step into them. Once Steve had dressed him (that was gonna take awhile to sink in), he pressed a single slow kiss to Bucky’s cheek. Seriously? _Seriously!?_ Bucky had never been treated like this by anybody! Not that there were a lot of people who’d had the opportunity (cough...Clint), but Bucky didn’t think that this was the norm for teenage romance. Was this a romance? Would Steve eventually draw them like they were on the cover of an overblown romance novel...with the castle, the pink and orange sunset, Bucky’s hair flowing in the wind, and the dramatic pose where Bucky was swooning in Steve’s strong arms? It sure did feel like it! What a fucking gentleman!

Steve pecked a second kiss onto his other cheek, like he was French or something, which doubled the shock. This rich superstar athlete, who’d almost become a caricature in Bucky’s brain, had just kissed him without Bucky initiating it in any way! Bucky hadn’t jumped on top of him and rubbed his dick everywhere like a horny teenager, there’d been no unfair use of the irresistible sex stare, and he hadn’t offered Steve another round in Bucky’s highly skilled mouth... honestly, he hadn’t done anything at all (except for getting naked and lying still). What the actual hell was this _awesomeness_?! The fear, that Steve was in a spiral of gay regret and had been pretending to be nice just to steal Bucky’s Lucky Charms, started to fade, and he couldn’t stop the smile from taking over his entire face.

“Okay, Bucky, your turn now. I like this game. Tell me something else about you”

Bucky peeked at the grumpy cats taking over his legs. The sad little mouths and the squinty kitty eyes didn’t represent his current mood _at all_ because he was happy! The grumpiness of the hundreds of little furry faces was the polar opposite of the explosion of happiness that was taking over every cell in Bucky’s body. He needed some Happy Cat pants STAT! That could be funny actually... superimposing a big toothy smile on top of Grumpy Cat’s grumpy one...he was gonna have to do some serious work with Photoshop on Monday.

Carefully gathering the drawing in his hands, Bucky asked, “Steve, why doesn’t anyone know that you can draw like this?”

“It’s complicated.”

“I’m learning that most things about you are.”

“Alexander doesn’t like it. He made me quit when I was in Middle School.”

Bucky noticed the tiny hatch marks building up the value of the shadows and whispered, “But you’re so good…”

“Because I didn’t actually quit,” Steve interrupted. “I just do it in secret.”

“Steve….”

“Okay, your turn.” Steve cut him off, pushing at Bucky’s shoulder with a fake smile. Worst actor ever.

It felt like Steve had given him a super special Christmas gift, wrapped up in extra special gold paper (the extra thick kind that you can’t buy at Meijer), so Bucky wasn’t gonna be a dick and push for any more answers. He didn’t want to be the asshole who gets an awesome present, like a flat screen TV or first class tickets to Disneyland on Christmas morning, then sets them aside after a whopping three seconds of appreciation and asks, “What’s next?” Bucky was _not_ gonna be that asshole.

“Well, Stevie, I don’t know if you’re ready for this one, but I’m about to introduce you to ‘The Morning Dance Party’...also _mandatory_. We already know that you suck at mandatory activities, but I’m not giving up on you yet!” Bucky smiled the most natural smile in the world at Mr. Romantic, then reached out his hand. “You need to come sit on the floor for this one...c’mon punk, lean against the bed.”

*****

 

 

Steve had never drawn a real person in the nude before. Sure, he’d spent countless afternoons at the MOMA meticulously sketching classical bronze and marble statues until he’d gotten the forms just right, but those static relics from times past couldn’t compare to the experience of having a living, breathing model within arm’s reach. Drawing Bucky’s beautiful body had been the most erotic moment of Steve’s life so far, and it had felt like such a privilege.

He could have gotten lost in the contour of Bucky’s thighs and the transitions in value flowing over the muscles in his back for _days_ . Bucky hadn’t moved in the slightest, and woah, did that do something for Steve. What exactly? He wasn’t sure. But Steve had felt something like pride when he’d perfectly held the pose. There had been _a lot_ of new things popping into his mind as his eyes learned the lines and shapes of Bucky; most of which he wasn’t ready for just yet. There had been a sense of slipping backwards; deep into a place where he could bend Bucky’s body forward until every one of his vertebrae was visible under his tan skin, or backwards over a pile of pillows to accentuate the map of his torso...twisting the clay of Bucky’s limbs into sensual poses that Steve would paint with large brushes onto oversized canvases. The endless possibilities had flipped through his mind in rapid succession, a thousand works of art waiting for realization, and for the first time Steve fully understood the word _muse_.

In the sunshine, Bucky’s scapula had cast a rich, flowing shadow across the curve of his ribcage, and it had been enough to pull Steve’s attention back to the reality in front of him. He’d focused his pencil on recreating the dark wavy lines of Bucky’s chocolate brown hair curling across the pillow and the organic negative spaces hidden in between; secret shapes in precious Muppet hair. Then he’d gotten lost in the way the subtle dimples in Bucky’s back muscles dipped inward where they’d connected to his perfect ass, and Steve’d had to pause for a minute to slow down his breathing. If anything had given him solid confirmation that he was actually gay, it was his instinctive reaction to Bucky’s ass. Even after he’d collected himself and had finished shading the sloping curve where Bucky’s ass connected to his muscular thighs, Steve had still felt breathless. The simple rendering of Bucky Barnes was the most beautiful thing that Steve had ever drawn; not because of the finished product, but because of the _experience_... because of the magical head space it had created.

Leaning back against the side of the mattress, Steve watched with amusement as Bucky fumbled around with his computer again. He seemed to do everything slightly faster than the rest of the world, and Steve got the feeling that sometimes Bucky’s limbs just couldn’t keep up with where his ideas were telling him to go. He pressed his palms to the floor, pushing a dirty sock out of the way, and wondered what was next on Bucky’s list of secrets.

“Okay, revelation number two,” Bucky started, snapping his fingers and pointing at Steve like he was on a high energy game show. “If you were shocked and amazed by my ability to sing like the magnificent Freddie Mercury...god, he was so hot. Such a killer moustache...then hold onto your hat, because you might experience full on cardiac arrest during my next juicy revelation.”

Was he gonna sing again? It seemed like it might be against the rules of the game to do the same secret twice, but Steve could listen to Bucky sing forever. His voice was powerful, and soothing, and _gorgeous_. And the song that Bucky had chosen? There was no way in hell that Bucky hadn’t been trying to use those perfect lyrics to show Steve that he already understood some of his pain. The thinking behind Bucky’s Sunday morning song had been nothing short of brilliant.

Bucky moved to stand a few feet in front of him and shook out his shoulders, and Steve could only stare at him with something like awe, because the anticipation alone was making him so damn happy. Suddenly, the heavy bass of Kiiara’s ‘Gold’ blasted from the speakers and Bucky looked down at him with that look; fuck, that slight dip of his chin, and the way his eyes expressed how hungry he was for _Steve_ ! He was still having trouble getting his head around the reality that this gorgeous _boy_ liked him, and that Steve liked _him_ right back.

Whatever fleeting ideas had been running through Steve’s mind as he waited, did absolutely _nothing_ to prepare him for Bucky to slowly and deliberately start rolling every inch of his body to the beat. Holy shit. The zing that shot from Steve’s throat all the way down to his dick as soon as Bucky dropped his center of gravity, made him squirm on the floor. Bucky was moving his hips like he was straight out of a music video (a very sexy music video that MTV could only play after ten o’clock) and Steve’s desire switch flipped up to full power instantly. Was Bucky’s second talent ‘turning Steve on’? Was that revelation number two in his bag of tricks? Because, jesus christ, he was _really_ good at making Steve’s cock tingle.

The song pulsated through the speakers, as Bucky’s long, lean body shifted in liquid currents; every muscle under control, every motion of his core confident and contemplated. When the second verse started, Bucky shook his addictive brown hair over his face, then sensually lifted the hem of his t-shirt up just enough for Steve to glimpse the muscles of his hips undulating where they connected to his abdominals...and good god, did Steve want to touch...he wanted to glue his hands on Bucky’s hips and _feel_ those muscles flexing and stretching beneath his fingertips. The sexy rhythm of the chorus carried Bucky a few steps closer to Steve’s bent knees, and his mouth watered as Bucky tipped his face into the sunshine spots from the disco ball. When Bucky rolled his muscles in a slow grind that stretched up through his body and to the top of his head, Steve knew that he wouldn’t be able to just sit there for very much longer. How could he remain an observer when Steve’s eyes were lured in by the sharp line of Bucky’s jaw and how it transitioned into the enticing curve of his neck? Running his eyes down the center line of Bucky’s chest, they landed on his tight stomach where Bucky was running his fingertips down towards his...oh, god...  

Steve’s hands moved of their own volition to gently touch the outsides of Bucky’s knees, and even when he swung his hair out of his face to stare into Steve’s eyes with a cocky grin on his lips, Bucky never stopped his luxurious rhythm.

“Bucky,” Steve moaned, wrapping the tips of his fingers behind his knees and steering him forward. “God, you’re beautiful. Come here.”

That simple request elicited Steve’s favorite Bucky smile so far; the toothy one with the crinkled corners that spread like honey. It did things to Steve... _powerful things_ ...that made him growl deep inside with desire. Bucky’s shoulders were finding patterns in the music that Steve would have never discovered on his own. In fact, he never would have discovered _any_ of this without Bucky. Each mesmerizing tick of Bucky’s chest, every single fluid shift in the angle of his waist, was completely hypnotizing. Steve smiled as a black and white spiral appeared behind Bucky’s rippling silhouette, highlighting each edge of the liquid movements of his limbs, and sucking Steve in completely. There was no doubt that he was completely under Bucky’s command, when Steve’s fingertips eased him over his knees and guided him down into his lap.

In the light of day, with every part of Bucky’s body surging against every part of Steve’s, he felt compelled to cup Bucky’s cheeks between his palms. The stubble on his jaw felt enchanting as Steve slowly pulled him into their first daylight embrace. Their lips joined in a perfect, languid kiss; physical connection without drama, adrenaline, or moonlit shadows obscuring the details of the moment. There was no frenzy to it, no push for anything other than soft explorations to begin learning how they moved together naturally.

Sadly the song ended, and silence filled the bedroom, but Steve didn’t want to stop...he didn’t want _any_ of it to stop. He gently sucked on the warm tip of Bucky’s tongue, then nibbled on his lips to memorize their texture. Catching Bucky’s eyes, Steve slowly broke the kiss and rested their foreheads together, somehow feeling like he’d just experienced his first real kiss. It wasn’t too much...it was _just right_ ; the perfect daylight confirmation that last night hadn’t been a dream, or a fluke. It had all been wonderfully real, and it was continuing.  

 

 

 

Steve grinned, as he ran his hands over the American flags covering his thighs. He felt all warm and fuzzy every time he peeked at the weirdo smushed into the cushions at the opposite end of the caved in couch. And in this case, _weirdo_ was the highest form of compliment, because every single crazy thing that Bucky came up with made Steve smile like a giggling idiot hopped up on happy juice.

They’d spent their day talking about music and movies, and had somehow kept their promise to Bucky’s dad to keep their clothes on (even though it had been _hard_...snort), and Steve felt like he was floating around in some sort of Sunday morning dream. Bucky had changed Steve’s bloody Band-Aids at least three times more than was really necessary, had repeatedly jumped off of the couch (like he was doing parkour) to grab Steve new bags of frozen vegetables every hour, and had made absolutely sure that he didn’t bump into Steve’s ribs when he did the opposite of parkour and snuggled up next to him. Bucky had instructed Steve to pick out the first movie (thinly veiled movie snob test) and after perusing the hundreds of disorganized options, Steve had gone with ‘Napoleon Dynamite’, because laughing at a dude wearing moon boots was always a fantastic idea. When he’d handed over the DVD to get the results of his test, Bucky’s face had spread into a huge grin. He’d patted Steve’s shoulder approvingly, before he’d suddenly screamed, “Vote for Pedro!” and had flown up the stairs. He’d amazingly returned in seven seconds with an even more amazing pair of American flag pants flapping after him like a patriotic cape as he’d leapt off the bottom step. It seemed that watching movies with Bucky required costume changes. It reminded Steve of Tony, which couldn’t have been more surprising.

For lunch, Bucky had miraculously dug a family sized bag of tater tots from some sort of portal hidden in the bottom of the freezer under the burritos. Once they’d shoved all but six potato nuggets of deliciousness into their mouths, Bucky had jammed the rest into his pocket and snickered, “You gonna eat your tots?” over and over until Steve’s ribs had started aching from laughing so damn hard. To thank Bucky for his wonderful weirdness, Steve had drawn him an epic picture of a Liger (spikes and all), while Bucky had brushed his hair up into a side pony just like Dot’s. The day couldn’t have been more perfect.

In fact, Steve would have happily stayed on the happy, caved in couch, where everything felt like some sort of wonderful teenage dream, but his phone had started buzzing around three-thirty with a series of annoying texts. And now, even though Steve was willing the world to forget that he even existed, it wouldn’t fucking stop.

The first text had been from Alexander’s sharp and pointy assistant, Jade, asking very _professionally_ where the fuck Steve was? He’d decided to go with the _generic_ ‘staying with a friend for a few days’ response. Steve was positive that as soon as Jade had gotten his reply, she’d clicked her sharp and pointy heels directly into Alexander’s office (or wherever the hell he was) to give her report in her equally sharp voice. Alexander The Prick wouldn’t push it, of course, due to the indisputable fact that he’d completely smashed in Steve’s face last night.

Steve pressed the phone to his chest to ignore another notification and chuckled. If that kind of honest conversation ever took place between Alexander and Jade, it would be one for the record books: ‘Jade. Find out where Steven is immediately! I punched him repeatedly last night, until he was bleeding and dripping snot all over himself, and I need you to confirm his whereabouts right away. _After_ you drop off my dry cleaning, of course’. God, what a joke.

Bucky was messing with his goofy ponytail and his adorable feet were touching Steve’s. Bucky Barnes’ toes were touching him, and Steve’s mind kept telling him that they were _adorable_ . Not once in his life had he thought that anyone’s feet were adorable...honestly, he couldn’t remember a time when he’d thought about anyone’s feet _at all_. That certainly wasn’t the case any more, because as he rubbed his toes on the soles of Bucky’s feet like a worry stone, he felt better about the stupid texts.

A few minutes after Jade’s annoying text, he got one from Sam, asking very _kindly_ where the fuck Steve was. He decided to go with the truth; ‘Problem last night, stayed at Bucky Barnes’ house’, and Sam...because he’s the Patron Saint of Friendship... replied immediately with a very _concerned_ ‘you ok?’

God, he loved Sam, who somehow always let Steve know he was there for him without being pushy. Steve texted, ‘Yeah, actually I am. Thank you. I’ll call you later’, then slid his foot inside of Bucky’s pant leg until it was nestled safely in the warm spot right behind his knee. He didn’t understand why he felt the desire to connect with Bucky, but it was a magnetic force that Steve couldn’t deny.

A few minutes _later_ , Stark texted him, asking very _obnoxiously_ where the fuck Steve was and telling him very _obnoxiously_ where the fuck he needed to be. ‘Captain Underpants, where the fuck r u? Movie night! Be there or be square, Huey Lewis! New Star Trek! Hot Alien Chick with Hot Alien Ass! 7PM sharp!’  Steve ignored Tony’s nonsense and slid his other foot into Bucky’s pants. That motion got a chuckle and some seriously raised eyebrows from Bucky, but Steve kept staring at the TV like he didn’t have the foggiest clue about his weird behavior. His feet wanted to hide in Bucky’s pants, and Steve was gonna let them.

The phone chimed again two minutes later, and Steve groaned when he read the screen. ‘I know u saw that! Sam says ur alive. U coming? I miss you and your chiseled jaw of freedom! RSVP!’ Steve pointedly ignored that one too, and started flexing his feet against Bucky’s skin until it went off a third time.

“Steve,” Bucky said, grabbing his incognito feet through the cotton of his pajama pants, “everything okay?”

Steve ventured a glance his way and cracked up, because Bucky’s hair was still pulled up in Dot’s side pony. He’d even dug up some sort of retro rubber band, with little plastic pink circles on it, out of Natasha’s room for ‘authenticity’. He looked beautifully ridiculous.

“Now, don’t get me wrong here, Stevie, I’m _totally_ thrilled to have your feet jammed into my pants, but I kinda feel like you’re slowly trying to fit your entire body all up in there, and the laws of physics just aren’t gonna let that happen, buddy.”

“Well, that’s a damn shame because it’s Tony and he’s on a roll.” It chimed again, and Steve rolled his eyes because he knew that the texts would keep coming and coming until he finally gave in and agreed to go. “He’s pestering me about movie night at his place, and I really need to hide from him in your pants.”

Bucky laughed and made grabby hands for the phone, which posed an interesting question; should Steve introduce him to the manic world of Tony Stark? His grabby hands were pretty convincing...maybe Bucky could join in his suffering? Why not? Steve tossed it into his wiggly fingers then sank back into the mushy corner of his new favorite couch.

Steve wasn’t really ready for Bucky to read the text out loud while pulling off a surprisingly accurate Tony impression.

He started by puffing out his chest and standing on his tiptoes, which was already on point, then he nailed the boisterous inflection of Tony’s voice. “Captain Kirk! Star Wars TONIGHT! No excuses! U r the Kirk to my Spock! Respond- or I’ll sick Khan on you!” Bucky tipped his head to the side and seemed pretty damn shocked when he said, “Huh, that’s actually really funny.”

It chimed again, and Steve shook his head, because what else could he do at this point? “Oh, Tony’s definitely funny, and intense, and persistent, and obnoxious.”

Bucky pushed up even higher and kept right on reading. “Mandatory White Trash Attire. Wonder Bread bologna sandwiches provided. And beer. No mullet, no entry.” Dropping the phone onto his chest, Bucky snorted. “Is he serious?”

“Completely serious,” Steve sighed. When it chimed again, Steve got hit with one of the crazy, organic ideas that had been popping into his head for the past eighteen hours. He was a little taken aback, because this one was a doozy...but they’d all turned out great so far...so, why the hell not? Steve let his feet come out of their hiding place, then leaned forward to tap Bucky on the belly. “You should come with me.”

“I should?”

“You should.”

“And how are you gonna explain my presence to your friends, who all _hate_ me.”

“They don’t hate you.”

Bucky leveled him with a ‘really?’ look, and Steve reconsidered. “Okay, _some_ of them hate you, but they don’t really know you, and I’ve had a fantastic day so far...despite being in horrible pain...and I don’t want it to end. Honestly, this has been the best day that I’ve had in a _very_ long time. Yeah, I’m not ready to stroll into Tony’s house and scream, ‘Hi, I’m totally gay now and this is Bucky, who I’m _super_ into kissing. Who’s ready for Star Trek?’ because in all honesty, I’m still pretty freaked out by...I don’t know... I just need some time to wrap my head around everything, and I hope you can understand that. But I’d really love for you to come and hang out. It’s actually kinda fun, because  it’s usually just Ezra, Sam, Scott, and Tony.”

“Wow,” Bucky snickered, “throwing me right into the lion’s den, huh?”

Steve crawled on top of him, marveling at the happiness a goofy ponytail could inspire, and smiled at Bucky with all of his heart, before whispering, “Daniel made it out okay.”

 

 

Mr. Barnes and Natasha had gotten back around four-thirty with a delicious pizza from a place called Anthony’s. The four of them had crowded around the little coffee table and had devoured it in less than ten minutes. Steve had tried to eat his last piece really slowly to delay the inevitable...because he’d known _exactly_ what was coming next...but he’d been so hungry, and the cheese had been sooo good, that he’d shoved it into his mouth in four bites. As predicted, as soon as he’d swallowed the final bite, Mr. Barnes had gotten out of his armchair and had asked to talk to Steve alone. It had been weird going to the Principal’s office in a kitchen; the same intimidation factor surrounded by checkers, a rogue Tater Tot hiding next to the microwave, and salt and pepper shakers shaped like grenades.

They’d had a very long, _very_ serious talk that had involved the legality of not reporting Alexander to the police. Bucky’s dad had done some research during the day; since Steve had already turned eighteen the whole situation had become something else entirely. Steve had really tried his best to be honest with Mr. Barnes, explaining as clearly as he could why he’d never made the call, and why he’d never asked anyone for help. Even though Mr. Barnes didn’t agree with his choices, in the end Steve felt like he had a strong player in his corner.

Steve had also gotten a _very serious_ talking to about the inappropriateness of getting naked with Bucky under Mr. Barnes’ roof, a _very uncomfortable_ discussion about safe sex, and an _even more uncomfortable_ shovel talk about Steve using Bucky, or Steve hurting Bucky, or Steve being an asshole to Bucky in general. He’d made many promises to Phil Barnes in that closed door discussion; involving Steve’s limits, his safety, his understanding of condoms, and, most importantly, the commitment to care for Bucky’s heart. He might not know what the hell he was doing, but Steve could already say with complete sincerity that he’d never do anything to hurt Bucky. The list of promises had been long, and Steve intended to keep every single one.

Afterwards, Bucky had somehow managed to talk his dad into letting them go to movie night at Tony’s place. Steve suspected that Bucky was channeling Luke Skywalker and using Jedi Mind Tricks. The Force was the only logical explanation for Mr. Barnes’ baffling decision to let them out of the house.

*****

 

 

Tony knew that this was going to be a spectacular night! A Great Gatsby extravaganza! If Gatsby had been white trash and liked Slim Jims. But definitely spectacular!

Captain Hook had finally agreed to drag his perky ass and perfect hair over to Tony’s shindig, and Ezra was already carrying in all the perfect mini hamburgers and the trays of squealing pigs-in-a-blanket from the kitchen. He had to give props to Chef Philippe for figuring out white trash cuisine over the course of one afternoon, just to make Tony and his guests happy! Listening to him rant in French about how fried Twinkies and Jello molds were “beneath him,” gave Tony oodles and oodles of high quality amusement. He needed to instruct Howard to give that man a raise immediately!

Now, Tony had to be honest with himself (every once in awhile it was a good idea), Star Trek wasn’t an even remotely white trash movie, but he’d _really_ wanted those little sausage things in the crock pot with the sweet barbecue sauce, and that meant that everyone had to play along so that Tony could get his little wienies. His group texts had been legendary, and they all better show up dressed for the occasion in their white trash finery, like Joe Dirt with his super mullet, or he was gonna go ‘8 Mile’ on their asses. Tony threw more cans of beer into the giant cooler and pondered the punishment if one of them showed up sans costume. No, that wasn’t even an option. They’d better fucking do it or he was gonna slam the door in their non-participatory upper class faces, and keep all the Jello shots for himself.

Ezra had the sense to show up wearing a dirty v-neck t-shirt, a red and black flannel tied around his waist, and big work boots that Tony had made him leave by the door because, gross, dirt! Super posh boy’s explanation for the muddy mess was that he’d ‘borrowed everything from the gardener,’ which Tony couldn’t believe. He was surrounded by idiots...rich, well educated idiots...but still _idiots_!

“Ezra, that’s not white trash, that’s _working_ class!” But since Ezra’s family fortune was almost on par with the Stark’s, and he’d probably never even _spoken_ to someone who was _actually_ white trash, Tony had cut him some slack and had given him a C+ for effort. Nobody deserved an A for effort, that kind of inflation was just pandering to idiots.

The obvious confusion about the definition of ‘white trash’ had driven Tony to the very important conclusion that he needed to add ‘Joe Dirt’ to the ‘Movie Night Must-Watch List’ immediately. He could kill two birds with one stone: educate everyone about the wonders of jorts and lawn darts _and_ give himself an excuse to force Chef Philippe to make fried Twinkies again. Genius... yes he was...thank you very much.

When Sam the Man finally showed up, he looked like Sam the Man always looks: boring. _Boring_ nice jeans and a _boring_ nice shirt. For a beautiful black man, he couldn’t get any more vanilla. “I don’t do themes, man,” was always the ‘blah blah blah’ that came out of his boring vanilla mouth. He said a bunch of other shit about not promoting stereotypes, and social justice, and some other boring crap that Tony didn’t listen to in the slightest because _he didn’t care_. Blah blah blah blah blah.

Scott at least had the decency to show up in a Metallica t-shirt and a trucker cap. Tony slapped him on the back and hollered, “Way to go little man! This is the spirit of the evening! See this, Sam! Scott is a team player. This is a Rockford Peach, a hard-core ‘Team America, Fuck Yeah’ member, A Mighty Duck! This right here, is a man that you can count on to come through in a tight spot.” Tony grabbed Scott’s shoulders, and shook the little Master of Puppets towards Sam. “This is a man who understands the beauty of Metallica! Vanilla Sam, you need to take notes and learn from DJ Jazzy Scott right here! Allow him to teach you to Ride the Lightning!”

Suddenly, Tony was totally over it, so he shoved Scott over onto the giant couch and made a beeline for the platter of Ritz crackers decorated with little swirls of spray cheese. Snatching up two, Tony cracked up, “Oh my fucking god! Do you see this!? It’s so orange!”

Sadly, a glob of oily cheese slid off the cracker and landed smack dab in the middle of his legendary sleeveless Van Halen shirt. Oh well, Tony shrugged, it made it more authentic. Mama June totally had cheese wiz all over her gross boobs all the time. He’d even cut the sides out of the shirt, converting it into a white trash tank top that showed off his entire rib cage. How did these people still consider this a shirt? It’s was so drafty! To get into character, he’d tried to make his hair look less cool, but since it was basically impossible for his hair to do anything _except_ look cool, he’d opted for the Ashton Kutcher trucker hat (backwards so that it was extra douchey). He shoved another processed cheese monstrosity into his mouth and glanced at the door. Steve better show up looking white trash as hell!

“Ezra,” Tony hollered, “be a champ and bust me out an ice cold can of Pabst Blue Ribbon from the cooler. Three cheers for authentic white trash beer!”

“You think that I’m your fucking maid or something?” Ezra scoffed, snatching a can out of the ice. “Get it yourself. Or actually, why don’t you call the _actual fucking maid!_ ”

“There’s a cooler?” Non-white trash, vanilla Sam started looking all over the room. Wait, wait, wait...can a black guy be white trash?

That thought blew Tony’s mind for a second, but he didn’t have time for it, so he snapped, “Of course there’s a cooler! And beer koozies! Scott, grab those koozies out of the kitchen!”

“What’s a koozie?” Scott asked, looking totally lost.

Tony groaned and ignored him. He had no time for lost people either, and he really wanted to try the foreign beer (foreign to him anyway). “Ezra, baby, I’m just trying to get you into the right mindset. Getting those un-calloused hands of yours a little roughed up by serving me is good for your character.”

Ezra flipped him off, then jumped over the back of the couch with a stack of fried bologna sandwiches.

“See! It’s working already,” Tony laughed. “That was super authentic! You just gave me the finger like a good ol’ boy at the Monster Truck Jam!”

When the doorbell rang, Tony went with the theme of being poor and shit, and answered it himself. Flinging it open with white trash Van Halen gusto, he discovered his straight laced bestie, Steve Rogers, dressed in a Ronnie James Dio jersey and a pair of ripped acid wash jeans, with a huge smile on his face. Tony was fucking speechless (he was never speechless). Dio! That was one-hundred times cooler than Tony’s Van Halen ‘tank top’! Didn’t Steve know that it was rude to outshine the bride at her white trash shotgun wedding!?

But his silence didn’t last long, because as soon as he spotted that little shit Bucky Barnes standing behind Steve, the words flowed right out of his mouth. “What the fuck is he doing here!?”

“Tony, he’s on the team now and…”

Tony shut the door in Steve’s face. Not happening. He leaned his back against the door to analyze this spectacular turn of events, but the brim of the fucking trucker cap was in his way (what impractical headwear!), so he flung it across the foyer into the potted ficus tree. It landed on one of the top branches. Now his tree was white trash.

In that very brief second when the door had been open, Tony had taken note of the facts, because that’s what he did...he couldn’t help it. Barnes, that little shit, had his hippie hair in a ponytail that was sticking out the back of a Coors Light baseball hat, _and_ he was wearing an excellent white trash jean vest with a white wife beater. Tony hated to admit it (passionately hated to admit it), but it was all begrudgingly _amazing_ . He needed a white trash beer, from his white trash cooler (filled with real gas station ice), to figure this shit out. Since that little fuck was _actually_ white trash, his perfect outfit didn’t really count, right?

Steve the Traitor started pounding on the door, which sounded like cannonballs slamming up against the wood. Didn’t he know that this was a classy neighborhood? Tony vibrated his lips, because fine, he had at least five million-dollar questions anyway. When he threw open the door, Steve was mid pound, so the big lug stumbled across the threshold in his Bret Michaels’ jeans.

Tony ignored him and stepped forward to block the doorway, putting himself face to face with the little shit (who actually wasn’t little at all). “You! Elton John!” Tony poked the Whitesnake button pinned on his killer vest. Damn, why was his vest so cool!? “Are you responsible for these white trash ensembles?”

“Yes?” The little shit raised his eyebrows like he didn’t understand Tony’s very basic question.

“Are you confused as to whether or not you are responsible for putting Captain Fancypants in a satanic Dio shirt?”

“No.”

Tony swung his head back and forth between the two of them, deciding if Ronnie James Dio and an authentic wife beater were sufficient enough to grant this weird little fucker, and the obviously insane Captain Dumbass, entry into his exclusive movie night clubhouse. “Fine, Tegan and Sara, but the Dio shirt’s the only reason that I’m letting you in.”

“Am I Tegan or Sara?”

Tony rolled his eyes, and scoffed, “Both. obviously.”

 

 

 

Tony was doing a very scientific experiment to see how many pigs-in-a-blanket he could shove into his stomach, along with a very large volume of Budweiser, before he exploded. So far, he was up to seventeen piggies wiggies and three cans of beer. “Now I really feel like white trash! Look at my stomach hanging out the bottom of my t-shirt.” He poked at his tummy, because it was super bloated. His belly button looked funny. “Here, let me unbutton my pants.”

“Tony, please don’t unbutton your pants,” Steve muttered.

“I do what I want!” he said, popping the button dramatically and pulling up his shirt for extra emphasis. “Scott, put your hat back on! You’re breaking the theme, man!”

“It’s tight on my head.”

“Someone get this man another crockpot wiener, because he’s sooo whiny. Why are you such a whiny wiener, Scott?”

“I’ve gotta admit, man, this alien chick is fine as hell!” Sam had claimed his usual spot on the giant couch, that was really more like a giant bed because it had attached ottomans in the middle and it could comfortably fit twelve people. Tony had begged and begged his mom to buy it, and when she’d said no, Tony had ordered it up anyway and had it delivered when his parents were galavanting around the canals of Venice. By the time she got back, Tony had already had three epic movie nights, and stained the fuck out of it with popcorn and beer. He had declared himself the winner of that battle of wills!

Anyway, Vanilla Sam was leaning against the armrest in the corner closest to the giant TV, with a plate of saucy chicken wings and juicy watermelon. He was still wearing the NASCAR hat that Tony had badgered him into putting over his vanilla haircut. Tony had to give it to the man, Sam had put up with twenty minutes of relentless whining before he’d finally lost his patience, shoved it on his head, and shouted, “Just give me the damn thing!” It looked good on him, not white trash, but at least he didn’t look like a Mormon anymore.

“I told you she was smokin’, like top notch hot, right?” Scott was on the opposite front corner with a giant 40oz bottle of Busch Lite nestled between his thighs. “If I was gonna fuck an alien, she’d be the one, I mean respectfully. I’d respectfully like to fuck her.”

“You’re not fucking anyone...from any planet...let’s be serious.” Ezra snorted, then leaned back to poke Scott in the ear.

“Plus, she likes Gangsta rap, so we’d get along just fine.” Sam took a bite of his watermelon and mumbled, “Fight the power!”

“You gonna feed that lily white alien some of this delicious chicken, Sam the Man?” Tony snatched a honey barbeque wing off his plate, and switched to his excellent southern accent. “And some of this fresh sliced watermelon? I picked it right outta my garden. I fertilized it with shit from my dog.” Tony snatched a piece of that too.

“Tony, I swear to god, are you being a fucking racist right now?”

“You’re the one that filled your plate with only stereotyped food, my friend, I’m just chowing down on a completely non-racist chicken wing.” Tony flopped back next to Sam and took a huge bite of juicy (god, this was really good) watermelon, and then he noticed it...

Steve and Weird Guy had both been pretty quiet the whole night so far, and it was obvious from the start that something straight out of the Twilight Zone was going on. Steve’s face was fucked up...bad. Tony was honestly surprised that he didn’t have a bite taken out of his ear (it was _that_ bad); he looked like he’d gone twelve rounds or had been attacked by a bear, but, as usual, everybody just pretended that he looked just fine and dandy and pretty as a peach. Why on Earth would Steve’s best buddies pretend that he didn’t look like a giant overripe plum that had gotten stepped on in the produce aisle at Whole Foods? Simple. Because Steve was a stubborn bastard. The Pavlovian reaction that Steve had managed to condition in everyone at Eaton (including the teachers) was impressive. The drooling reaction to the sight of Steve’s ‘accidental injuries’ was the following: ‘Oh look, there’s my buddy Steve. His face looks like he got beat up by Godzilla, but I’m just gonna ignore that completely and pretend that he looks ready for a photoshoot with Men’s Health Magazine. How’s the weather?’

Normally it was bullshit at the highest level, but for tonight...well, Steve’s face really added authenticity to the white trash theme. Tony probably shouldn’t think horrible shit like that, but he was drunk, and that was fucking hilarious, and it was his party so he could cry if he wanted!

Satanic Steve had claimed his normal spot in the very back corner of the couch, but tonight he had Weird Guy sitting a few feet in front of him, and now, Weird Guy was all hunkered down into one of Tony’s big throw pillow with his stupid weird legs stretched out so that his socked feet almost reached the other side. His fucking feet, with the groovy athletic socks that had the red stripes at the top (Tony really wanted to be mad at them, but they were cool, dammit!), were about eighteen inches from Tony. He looked right the fuck at home, casually passing a bag of Ruffles back and forth with Steveander Holyfield, and the casualness of the whole scenario was freaking Tony right the fuck out!

Covertly elbowing Sam in the side, he signaled that he needed to check out the new Bosom Buddies, but he didn’t share in Tony’s outrage. Vanilla Sam’s annoying reaction was to raise his eyebrows and shrug, before turning back to watch Jaylah kicking some ugly alien dude’s ass on a mushroom roof. Tony caught the hint of a smile on his lips, and he knew that Sam was a dirty dirty liar.

Scott would be a good bro and back Tony up! But when he looked over to rally the troops, Lightweight Scott was floating around in his happy little land of obliviousness and piss water beer. Useless. And Ezra? Well, Ezra had passed out like a loser, because he’d forgone Pabst Blue Ribbon in favor of Martinis with olives, over an hour ago. Turned out that the cheeky bastard was so posh that he couldn’t even stomach _pretending_ to be lower class for longer than twenty minutes. Maybe if he puked on himself, he could salvage his allegiance to the white trash party theme. Loser.

So, that meant that Tony was the only one paying attention to...holy shit! Tony slammed another half a beer before daring to look again, but when he went in for seconds it was right there in front of his very eyes!

While he’d been busy being annoyed at the rest of the ding-dongs, Steve Tyson and Weird Guy had pulled a total horror movie classic! That scary shit that they always do when the monster jumps four feet closer without you even seeing it move! Monster Steve and Monster Weird Guy’s bodies were both in completely new positions, and Tony had never even seen them twitch!

Weird Guy had magically conjured up earbuds and was lying on his side sound asleep, which really, how dare he! His hair was all up in his face (how did the dude even breathe like that?) and he looked as comfortable as a little beagle puppy in a squishy new dog bed. His stupid hair tie (from his begrudgingly cool pony tail) was laying in the middle of the cushions, like he was staking his claim with discarded green yellow rubber bands. Fight Club Steve had slumped down even further into the corner, and the almost empty bag of chips was spilling crumbs all over Ronnie James Dio. His swollen purple Tyler Durden face was completely at peace, because he was fucking sleeping like a sweet little baby! Captain Kirk and Wife Beater had eaten all of Tony’s chips, seven of his authentic fried Twinkies, and had fallen fast asleep. They didn’t even drink! What Grandpas!

Suddenly, ‘Sabotage’ blasted from the surround sound system, and Tony forgot all about the White Trash losers while he got sucked in by CGI explosions, fireballs, and the excellent use of The Beastie Boys. Really, give that music director a raise! But he got bored again when the stupid villain guy got caught in the air duct. Just transport him out, people! Just hit ‘energize’ and beam him into space! Why were they so stupid? An inanimate object could figure it out! Just hit the button! Frustrated, Tony glanced over and…

Okay, where was the ghost? There had to be some really cliché movie monster dripping ectoplasm or black water all over the back of Tony’s expensive leather couch! Obviously _something_ was showing these two how to do the evil ghost tricks, because they were jumping positions in a millisecond, completely unseen by the naked eye! What the hell?

“Sam, what the hell!?” Tony shook Sam’s shoulder and pointed towards the shocking scene. Sugar Ray Steve had scooched all the way down so that he was laying right next to Weird Guy, and their mother fucking feet were mother fucking touching!

“Hey, hey, hey there...what’s wrong, guys? Is everything okay?” Scott drunkenly slurred. How much horrible beer did it take to get Scott Lang drunk? Eighty ounces of top of the line Busch Lite.

“No, everything isn’t okay.” Tony aggressively pointed, then launched an empty bag of Pork Rinds at Sam. “Look at this shit! Why the hell is this freak even here, and why the fuck is Steve touching his feet?”

“Tony, stop being a dick,” Sam snapped, throwing the NASCAR hat at Tony’s chest in retaliation. When it landed, Sam sneered like the hat had personally offended him (or maybe, like Tony had personally offended him). Tony didn’t give a shit which one it was.

“Yeah, I think he’s really nice guy.” Scott drunkenly pointed right back at Tony, like they were in the middle of a cute little pointing game. “I’ve gotten to know Bucky at swimming this week; and he’s really funny, and he kicks ass, and he made everyone look stupid, and I don’t know why you’ve got such a big problem with him. Not that it’s not your right to have a problem, if you want to, it’s your house…”

Tony tried pointing his finger even more aggressively at Scott, but it turns out that there’s a maximum threshold for finger pointing effectiveness. “Why don’t you go rub your tootsies on him too if you’ve got such a huge crush on the guy.”

“Tony, just shut the hell up and watch the movie.” Sam sounded pissed, and when Chocolatino gets pissed you know that you’ve pushed some serious buttons. Joining the pointing game, Sam snarled, “Steve obviously had a serious problem last night, just look at how many Band-Aids are on his forehead! He’s just tired! Give him a break.”

“But…”

“Tony, enough! Shut up and watch the movie. You’re ruining the end.”

Groaning, he shoved another Twinkie in his mouth and listened like a good boy. He even got a little weepy during the Anton Yelchin scene. He’d really liked that guy. If Tony had designed that car, shit like that would _never_ have happened!

As the credits rolled, he slammed the rest of his fifth Budweiser and pulled the empty can out of its excellent Koozie. Why did these things go out of style? Maybe he could re-engineer them to keep beer cold even longer, then do a full product relaunch? He was considering the best fabric options, when Sam’s eyes got huge. Koozie forgotten, Tony turned to see that Steve Ali had rolled towards brunet Kurt Cobain, and that there was only about three inches of space left between them. He was about to say something remarkably snarky and clever, when Steve slid his bulging bicep over Weird Guy’s waist and pulled his entire body backwards so they were spoons! Big spoon and little spoon in white trash duds, being gay as fuck!

Sam’s eyes were _huge_ . Tony was sure that his own eyes were _extra huge_ ! Ezra’s eyes were _not huge_ (because he was passed out, duh). And Scott’s eyes were _most definitely huge_ , when he slurred, “Huh, that’s new.”  

“Are you two seeing this Bert and Ernie shit!? Do you see how that little gay weirdo spread his gayness all over Steve!” Tony swiveled his head back and forth, and he had no idea who to look at because he was completely losing his shit. “We have proof! Proof of the contagiousness of gay. I’m gonna write an article! Do they even realize that they’re cuddling? Is this _accidental_ cuddling? Why do they look so cozy? This must be an accident. Steve’s brain got injured along with his face, and he must think that’s Sharon or something!”

“He dumped Sharon.” Sam tipped his head and made annoying duck lips. Why the hell was Sam making ‘know-it-all’ duck lips at a time like this!?

Tony was getting frustrated. Why didn’t Sam see that this shit was accidental? “Well, maybe subconsciously he misses her or something, so he just grabbed the nearest warm body?”

Then the coup de gras occurred, and it left Tony with no other option but to shut the fuck up. The credits had just finished rolling and the room had gone completely silent, so there was no confusion, or distraction, or chance that they’d heard something wrong. They all watched with their own eyes as Steve gently nuzzled his face into the back of Weird Guy’s hair, then softly mumbled, “Night, Bucky,” before kissing the spot behind his ear.

Tony climbed off the front of his couch because this was some bullshit! “You know what,” he huffed, heading for the door, “let’s just talk about Jaylah’s ass some more and pretend that this ‘Brokeback Mountain’ moment isn’t happening…”

“They sure do look super comfortable,” Scott dared to interrupt him, and made duck lips too. What the hell was with the duck lips!?

The room was spinning a little bit as Tony lunged to catch the wall, but not enough to prevent him from growling at Scott like an angry beaver. Ha, angry beaver. He tried to growl, but snorted instead, “Are you serious right now, Lang?”

“They _do_ look comfy! Jeez, what’s your problem?”

“Steve has his dick smashed up against Lou Reed’s ass over there, and all you can say is ‘they look comfy’!?”

“Let’s call it a night,” Sam ordered, pushing up off the couch and herding Tony out the door like he was a fucking sheep. “I’m gonna call Natasha and let her know that they’re staying over.”

“Well,” Tony tried to shove back, because he was no sheep! “Aren’t you considerate of your _gay_ best friend and his new, gay fuck toy!”

“You know what, Tony? I’ve had it. You’re drunk, so I’m gonna let that last line slide, but say another one like it and we’re gonna have a serious problem.” Sam grabbed the back of Tony’s Van Halen shirt and had the nerve to forcefully haul him through his own door, clicking off the lights on their way out like a Good Samaritan trying to save the fucking planet. What an annoying Boy Scout!

“Uh, guys,” Scott hesitated, letting out a huge burp. “We’re just gonna leave Ezra here?”

“Yeah,” Tony slurred, stumbling into Sam the Turncoat. “It’ll make for good times when he wakes up. Let’s just pray that Super Gay Weird Guy doesn’t spread his disease any further and sucks Ezra into their gay cuddle pile.”

“That would be pretty awkward,” Scott chuckled, falling backwards on his ass. Tony thought that it would be pretty funny to puke pigs-in-a-blanket all over him, but he refrained. Even dressed like white trash, Tony Stark was fucking civilized.

He stumbled on Scott’s legs and scoffed as Sam caught his elbow. He didn’t need a goddamn Vanilla Boy Scout to keep him from falling over in his own house!

“I’m telling you,” Tony yelped, landing face first on the marble floor. “The gay is contagious!”

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! I present to you a GIANT chapter, lol. The "Pop Culture List of Awesomeness So You Know What The Hell I'm Talking About" is SOOOOO long for this chapter because Tony and Bucky are birds of a feather and never shut up about it. I'm gonna give you the abridged version and if you have questions feel free to ask. Find me on [Instagram](https://www.instagram.com/jessielucidart/) and [Tumblr](http://lucidnancyboy.tumblr.com/) to see TONS of my Stucky Fan-art. Your kudos and comments make me squeal in delight so THANK YOU! Music- You REALLY need to listen to the song 'Easy' by The Commodores and imagine Bucky singing it to Steve. You will thank me; Also if you happen to put on Kiiara's 'Gold' and picture Bucky dancing like Chaning Tatum you will also thank me. You might even send me a present; Rhianna 'Love on the Brain' is my current favorite song and I think Natasha would totally dance to it in her room; "Squidward...Good!" is totally from Spongebob's 'Campfire Song' which gives me quite the chuckle imagining Steve as Squidward and Bucky as Spongebob, because that's really the story here, lol; Freddy Mercury was the lead singer of Queen and Bucky's kindred spirit, Jason Derulo can dance like no tomorrow, smooth moves and that's what I want Bucky to be, a showstopper; American Idol and The Voice, ok don't you all want Miley Cyrus as your coach? Screw that, I want her as my best friend!; Ronnie James Dio is a ridiculous metal singer from the 80's who sang with Black Sabbath for a while. Satanic hilariousness; Metallica t-shirts were the only thing to wear in the 80's, particularly from their album 'Ride the lightning'. I know I had one (still do); Van Halen. God knows Tony would love Van Halen because he can't help himself; 'Fight the Power!' is a Public Enemy song that you should all know for its impact on the genre of rap music. That's your homework. Movies- 'Transpotting' is the penultimate heroin movie and if you want to scare yourself away from hard drugs while having a good laugh its on my top 10 favorite films of all time list. 'Intervention' is a TV show about getting people off drugs (or trying to). Drugs are bad kiddies; The Rockford Peaches were one of the female baseball teams in 'A League of their own' ('There's no crying in baseball!"), Team America: World Police is something you need to watch now and 'Team America Fuck Yeah' is a very catchy song you should all learn, 'Suicide Squad' bummed me out. Except for super hot Jared Leto as The Joker (Jared is a wee bit of an obsession for me) and Margot Robbie's Harley Quinn. The rest, ugh; 'Joe Dirt' is the best David Spade movie and he's surprisingly touching for a white trash dude with a mullet; The new 'Star Trek' was AWESOME and I have the biggest crush on Jaylah (loved the actress in 'Kingsman' too), 'Star Wars: The Empire Strikes Back'; 'The Great Gatsby' is a book but also another Leonardo DiCaprio movie, about a super egotistical outrageous bazillionaire with a soft mushy inside, kinda like Tony; 'Napoleon Dynamite' is seriously the funniest movie I've ever seen. Some of my friends didn't get it and I couldn't be friends with them anymore, lol; Randomness- Please don't be offended by my white trash party. I enjoy some fried bologna sandwiches every now and again (totally grew up in the middle of Ohio so I'm speaking from experience), 'Daniel in the lion's den' is a bible thing. God miraculously protects Daniel from hungry lions just like Steve is gonna learn to protect Bucky; 'Koozies' are these foam holders for beer cans (or pop, but I always picture beer because my dad drank Budweiser when I was a kid and he always wanted me to 'find his Koozie') that keep them super cold; Tony is going to call Bucky every gay person's name that he can think of, because he's kinda an ass, so it all begins with Tegan and Sara (two openly gay identical twins who make meaningful alternative music), and Lou Reed (Singer for the influential band 'The Velvet Underground' who was known to bend gender roles and embrace the underworld of the 60's and 70's sexual revolutions). Wow, there's more but that is enough! My two TRIVIA QUESTIONS for this chapter are 1. Who gave the advice I used to deal with anxiety and panic attacks? 2. Where is the nickname 'Choclatino' from? Imaginary Ice Cream sundaes for the first people to comment the correct answers! CHEERS! :)


	7. Territorial Pissing in Candy Land

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi lovely readers. If you are a new reader I have a disclaimer. I have been working with my WONDERFUL beta, Lorien, to revise and edit this entire story. Turns out after a year of writing I've gotten much better. lol. The previous six chapters were already revised and reposted, the next chapters 7-15 are the originals and I'll be slowly plugging away at them. Chapter 16 and up were done with Lorien. 
> 
> My disclaimer is: Go easy on me in Ch 7-15. lmao. 
> 
> Thank you so much for reading! :)

                                                                     

 

“Bucky’s driving.” Steve didn’t know how it became their thing so quickly, but as he flipped the keys in a high arc through the crisp morning air he knew it would continue being their thing from this moment forward. Bucky driving was their first tradition and that gave Steve pause. Was this the person he would build traditions with? Was that something that he was allowed to do?

There was so much grace in the way Bucky easily made the one-handed catch behind his back, and Steve wondered if he always seemed to be dancing. His mind drifted back to the natural high he’d felt when Bucky danced for him; the way his slim hips rocked against Steve’s lap with the perfect amount of pressure and how he’d felt like the current was pulling him out to sea when Bucky’s arms sensually snaked around his neck. Remembering the glorious feeling of surrender that floating unmoored in Bucky’s riptide provided, Steve thought of the word _effortless_. Everything Bucky did seemed so effortless, like the lifelong rhythm of a beating heart. Bucky spun around after making the perfect catch and smiled brightly at him, and it made Steve crave his fluidity.

Since everybody ended up spending the night at Tony’s when nobody originally intended to, they were all decked out in ridiculous combinations of white trash leftovers and Tony’s workout clothes. These, of course, were too small for everyone except Scott. The tragic result was struggling cotton fibers stretched far past maximum capacity across broad chests, round asses and long limbs. Steve watched with great amusement as Bucky sauntered over to the driver’s side door wearing the black Ronnie James Dio t-shirt. The drama caused by that satanic shirt at seven-thirty in the morning was completely beyond Steve’s comprehension, but it was Tony that caused the testosterone fueled argument so he really shouldn’t be surprised.

Tony was begrudgingly doling out too-small workout clothes to his much bigger friends when he felt the need to throw an epic temper tantrum because Steve nicely requested a t-shirt and shorts for Bucky too. Tony aimed an aggressive finger towards Bucky, who was standing uncertainly in the doorway of the giant closet, and yelled, “there’s no way in hell I’m loaning _him_ the shirt of my back! Or the shorts off my ass!”

That made Steve angry. Really fucking angry. Bucky started to walk away, trying to hide the hurt on his face with a sarcastic smile, and that was _not_ fucking ok!  It was way too early to deal with Tony’s shit and Bucky didn’t deserve any of his malice, so Steve dramatically stripped off the Dio shirt right then and there. Bucky stopped with wide eyes and Steve tossed him the shirt before pushing his bare chest right in Tony’s face; giant purple bruises on full display.

“Fine, then you can loan _me_ a goddamn shirt!” Steve obviously had the height advantage, so he backed Tony into the tight corner between the solid wood shelves lined with rows of designer tennis shoes and the extensive rack of pristine suits. With his black eyes, bandaid covered forehead and obvious disdain, the intimidation factor worked perfectly.

When Steve stretched the tiny red Aerosmith t-shirt, that Tony had so generously provided, over his broad chest and defined shoulders the look of unadulterated horror on Stark’s smug face was priceless. Steve was very impressed with Tony’s miraculous change in attitude when he requested a pair of shorts for Bucky.

And that’s how Steve ended up staring at Bucky’s ass in Tony’s too-tight grey Adidas basketball shorts for the past twenty minutes. His mind was enthusiastically jumping on board the ‘I’m gay now’ train, full steam ahead, because he couldn’t stop looking! Yesterday, while Bucky was showering before Movie Night, he’d taken a second look at the strokes and details his pencil had created across the paper. Objectively studying his drawing of Bucky’s naked form revealed his new obsession pretty clearly. He’d completely ignored the tiny details of the hands and feet, only loosely suggesting their gestures. Instead, he’d given his full attention to precisely capturing the way the shadows folded over the curves of Bucky’s muscular back and the way the sunlight bounced off his perfect ass in glowing highlights.

Now he felt uncontrollably drawn to him, sucked in by his gravity, and his eyes continually tracked up and down Bucky’s body, pausing to soak in the sunshine of his stunning smile before flowing back towards his feet again. The fact that Bucky had layered his fraying, faded blue jean vest on top of the satanic black t-shirt and placed his Coors Light baseball hat over his messy hair, both backwards and cocked to the side, was the most quirkily mesmerizing thing Steve had ever seen. Oh, and the bubble gum... who shoved a giant wad of Strawberry Bubble Yum in their mouth at eight o’clock in the morning? Bucky popped a huge pink bubble and Steve thought, I guess Bucky does.

He simply adored the look of Bucky’s juxtaposition as he slid behind the wheel. He was a magical patchwork of styles and colors that somehow worked as a whole. It made Steve think of Picasso; bits and pieces of stripes and plaids and polka dots mixed with overlapping shapes and bold black outlines. Shapes and patterns that came from here and there but together they created a mood evocative of movement and music and harmony.

Steve rounded the hood, staring at the unique bits and pieces through the windshield, seeing the cubism of Bucky, and ran right into Sam who was leaning, arms crossed, against the passenger door.

“Steve,” he chuckled, “I’m not losing shotgun because you decided to add a new member to the carpool club. If he’s driving _you_ can sit your ass in the back”. He tipped his head towards the back seat and the look on his face meant he wasn’t moving.

Steve crossed his arms and tried to look mad, “So that’s how it is?”

“That’s how it is.”

When Sam made up his mind about something there was nothing you could do to change it, so Steve just chuckled and awkwardly climbed across the back seat to sit behind Bucky.

“Hey, we’ve got a problem guys.” Scott was looking from face to face obviously doing some mental math, “There are too many people to fit in this car. One too many people. Person. One person too many.”

“That’s because Steve doesn’t think the third row seat is important,” Tony shoved Scott towards the open door, “I’m not sitting in the middle.”

“But you’re the shortest,” Ezra whined while slowly pulling the hood of Tony’s too small jacket over his hair and rested his lanky hands on top of his head, “god, I’m so hungover”.

“But I’m also the Alpha male, so size doesn’t matter.” Tony planted his feet firmly like a stout little tree and stood his ground.

“Will you assholes just get in the car?” Bucky yelled from the driver’s seat before blowing another huge bubble.

Sam yanked open the passenger door and leveled Bucky with a shocked and slightly amused stare. “Did you just call me an asshole?”

“Yeah, that’s kinda my nickname for all you rich people.” He popped another bubble and smiled that toothy grin. Sam’s eyes got impossibly bigger, like ‘oh no you didn’t’, and Steve wanted to laugh. He knew that look. It meant Sam thought Bucky was ok; that he thought Bucky was funny; that Bucky met his approval. That wonderful wide eyed look on Sam’s handsome face meant more to Steve than words could possibly express.

“Jesus fucking christ, move! I need a double espresso right now, maybe a triple,” Ezra bitched as he pushed his lean body past Tony, stumbling into Scott before clambering through the car door. “ _I’ll_ fucking climb in the back if someone, _anyone_ , will just drive us to Starbucks immediately and order me the biggest coffee they have with a side of twenty Extra Strength Tylenol.” Ezra threw himself over the seat with an undignified thump and sprawled his limbs everywhere. Suddenly Steve got hit in the head. “Steve, take your gym bag.”

“Ouch Ezra, what the hell?” Steve threw the grey canvas bag on the floor just as Tony shoved Scott into the middle.

Scott stared at Steve like an offended puppy and whined, “man, are you kidding me? Really? Where am I supposed to put my feet?”

He decided ignoring Scott’s complaining was his best course of action. “I forgot I had this in here,” Steve laughed, “now I can wear a shirt that actually allows my arms to move and shorts that aren’t crushing my balls!”

“You mean I let you completely stretch out and destroy my favorite Aerosmith t-shirt with your He-Man muscles for nothing!” Tony practically screamed across the car and Steve glanced down at his chest. His pecs truly were challenging the tensile strength of the red cotton fibers, stretching them to capacity.

“Yes?” Steve replied and shrugged. Bucky snorted as he started the engine.

“Hey, Neil Patrick Harris, shut your pie hole or I’ll repossess my shorts right now and you can run around the track in your goddamned underwear!” Bucky slyly looked over his shoulder and smirked, and Tony paused, realization dawning, “oh fuck me, tell me you’re not going commando in my shorts!”

“Coffee….now,” Ezra’s gravely voice pathetically drifted over the seats.

Bucky steered the truck into traffic with confidence and Steve was in awe of the contrast between Thursday’s white knuckle concentration and the relaxed swag he was displaying now. His long fingers were casually looped around the wheel at ten and six, and his left leg was sprawled out and flush against the door. Steve liked the look of him spreading into his space; the tenacious vines of a growing jungle reclaiming the post-apocalyptic urban landscape.

Last night, when they went to retrieve the oversized black Escalade from Bucky’s tiny garage, Steve’s eyes froze on the hulking black mass overtaking the homey space and he realized he didn’t want to drive. His feet ground to a halt on the steps and he desperately tried to shove down the acrid panic that was bubbling up his throat. His breath accelerated and he saw flashes of dark undulating metal, the sharp edges of black glossy feathers, and coagulating blood. Blood dripping in tiny pools onto leather. Blood spraying in a fine mist onto crumbling bricks. Blood falling in slow motion towards black and white checkered linoleum. Breathe. Breathe. Breathe... Bucky had bumped right into the back of him and the kinetic transfer sparked the answer. Breathe. Breathe… Steve simply turned, sucked in a deep cleansing breath and held it in his lungs, waiting for the oxygen to flood his system. Letting the breath out slowly he gently transferred the keys to Bucky’s palm and said, “will you please drive?”

There was nothing but relief and gratitude pushing down the panic when Bucky’s expression told Steve that he understood. To suddenly have a person in his life who just got it...who naturally caught the nuance and readily accepted his needs, flooded Steve’s body with comfort, security and safety. Those emotions were so foreign that Steve had felt dizzy, like he was living in a surrealistic dream.

Bucky, in his perfectly silly outfit, had driven them back towards the Manhattan skyline while happily letting Steve play him the new Radiohead album. He actively listened to Steve gush about seeing them live at Lollapalooza last summer and asked thoughtful questions about the set-list and their energy efficient light show. The way Bucky occasionally glanced at Steve with crinkled eyes and scrunched-nose smiles while the conversation easily flowed made Steve want to tell him everything. Everything. He’d never told anyone how he’d felt at that show, or the real reason he simply walked away and disappeared for two hours, but he told Bucky. He wanted him to know.

The words started pouring out of his mouth as they crossed the forty-nine bumps back over the Brooklyn Bridge and Steve didn’t feel the usual dread. It felt cathartic to tell Bucky how Tony refused to stop constantly talking about absolutely nothing during the first few songs. It felt like a baptism to share how Scott and Peter kept laughing insipidly because they were sky high from smoking weed with some old hippies. It was a relief to admit how much it bothered him when Sharon wouldn’t stop trying to get his attention with little touches or silly comments. It felt like confession to tell Bucky that Brock Rumlow was so drunk that he was continuously hollering stupid shit like ‘free bird’ and ‘show us your tits’ over the music. And it felt honest to finally tell someone how his blood pressure had risen higher and higher with every single horrific interaction to the point that he just couldn’t fucking take it anymore and was about to fucking explode! He hadn’t said a word to anyone and just walked away without a backwards glance; leaving the useless noise behind him and pushing forward through the crowd. He had to just _get away_. Every single person he brushed past in his rush to escape helped to wipe off the grit and grime of his friend’s pollution until he finally felt alone and clean and calm. In his panic Steve had wandered blindly to a spot on the grass where the people were quiet and appreciating the loud waves of guitar and the beauty of Thom Yorke’s devastating wail. He happily stayed right there, on that particular spot on planet Earth, lost in his head until the final note of the final encore.

When Sam finally found him the huge crowd had dispersed but Steve hadn’t moved from his quiet spot. Surrounded by empty water bottles and beer cans, confetti and cigarette butts, with his sneakers covered in mud, Steve was thoughtfully staring at the August stars. The truth was that he never wanted to leave the quiet pulses of ancient light that night, but the noise found him. The noise always found him. Steve had been informed that Sam had been very worried and that Sharon was frantic and concerned, while Tony bitched at him for being inconsiderate and for wasting his precious time trying to find him. Scott and Peter were standing back giggling with Mary Jane and Brock had passed out on the grass. But all Steve heard was irritating static crescendoing into a tsunami of bubbling rage. It was fucking _Radiohead_ and nobody fucking understood!

When Steve had turned his back and walked away, leaving them all behind to find a quiet bubble, he’d imagined himself floating weightlessly through the vastness of space, surrounded by the flashing lights of exploding stars and undulating nebulas. His white astronaut helmet blocked out everything except the blissful layers of music, while all of his friends, and Alexander, and Fury screamed at him from all sides in their airless vacuum. The beauty of his space suit was that no matter how hard they screamed they couldn’t make any noise and all. Their desperate flailing as their bodies flipped and rotated around him was completely obscured by the tranquility of the stars.

Steve had watched Bucky soak in his story without judgement and he felt safe enough for one final revelation; something he’d kept hidden even from himself. He confessed to Bucky that he’d wanted to hide in his quiet space suit with Thom Yorke forever. The look Bucky had given him in that quiet moment, with ‘A Moon Shaped Pool” lilting from the speakers, told Steve that he understood completely. Seeing his gentle features illuminated in the red light of the intersection made Steve want to tell him another secret, so he’d leaned across the center council and whispered directly in his ear that he’d like Bucky to hide in there too.

Tony interrupted his daydream and Steve thought ‘noise’. Noise!

“Why does Anderson Cooper get to drive anyway Steve? Why is Anderson Cooper here at all? Shouldn’t he be giggling uncontrollably with Kathy Griffin somewhere? We still haven’t established a legitimate reason for his presence.” Tony dared to point another finger towards Bucky.

God, why was he friends with such an asshole? “He’s here because I invited him and he’s driving because I want him to,” Steve said matter of factly. Space suit. Space suit.

“Oooooo. Sassy Steve has arrived.” Tony grabbed the back of Sam’s seat so he could look across to Steve. “So he’s your gay chauffeur now, huh? How trendy of you.”

Sam jerked his back against his seat to knock Tony off and yelled, “Tony, shut the fuck up and get the hell off my seat! I know your drunk ass probably doesn’t remember what I told you last night, but that shit has got to stop. Now!”

Steve had no idea what Sam was talking about but he got the very distinct idea that he owed him one.

“Coffee….” Ezra moaned.

Scott adjusted his seat belt and excitedly said to nobody, “I want a Mango smoothie!”

Noise. So. Much. Noise.

Bucky was staring straight ahead driving them towards Starbucks and Steve realized that he was suddenly very quiet. Not the good kind of quiet found in their space helmet, but the kind of quiet that has something hiding in the closet, ready to jump out and bludgeon someone with a sledge hammer. Steve should say something. What should he fucking say? What’s the protocol when you wake up completely entangled with Bucky Barnes on Tony Stark’s couch and obviously every single person in this car saw everything, but nobody is fucking saying anything? Except for Tony, because it’s not in the Stark DNA to keep his big mouth shut. But the rest of them were acting like it never happened. They were pretending that they didn’t witness Steve’s arm tucked completely under Bucky’s tight wife beater and that they didn’t see his finger-tips tangled in the tiny curls of Bucky’s chest hair and peeking out the very top. They were pretending that after Steve woke up and violently rolled away from Bucky that nobody saw his very obvious and very serious morning wood. The must be really into method acting based on their very convincing performance as amnesia patients with zero memory of Steve’s very hard dick pressed right up against Bucky’s ass.

It was utter bullshit. All four of them were standing right next to the couch staring at him with ‘Big Eyes’ after Tony whacked Steve in the face with an overpriced throw pillow. Eight giant round eyes were glued to him when he rolled over in all his morning glory, with his hand still stuck under Bucky’s shirt which pulled the poor guy violently along for the ride. Bucky landed on his back with his equally obvious morning wood and Steve wanted to cry. Two mornings in a row opening his eyes to judgement and disappointment. Steve felt like he was learning something about being gay. Something that he hated.

Eight eyes stared at Steve like he’d lost his mind, except for Sam whose ‘Big Eyes’ looked vaguely amused, and he felt rage. Bucky had opened his eyes for two seconds and grunted, flipped his hair back into his face and tried to roll back over. Unfortunately Steve’s arm was still stuck under his shirt and he had to awkwardly pull it out before Bucky could move. It was a sitcom. His life had become a judgemental slapstick sitcom and all Bucky did was mumble “mornin” before flipping back onto his side. Great punchline.

Steve thought about how ten ‘Big Eyes’ had turned to stare at Bucky, because Steve couldn’t believe he was being so cool about the whole situation either. Come to think of it, Bucky had ‘been cool’ about so much shit in the last week that he deserved far more than what Steve was giving him. Steve was just sitting here in the backseat while Bucky was ‘being cool’ wearing Tony Stark’s too tight shorts. Steve was just a silent passenger while Bucky was ‘being cool’ driving his horrible truck. Steve was a fucking asshole for just letting Bucky ‘be cool’ while Stark spewed bullshit at him. Nobody is that cool! Bucky had to be secretly worried or freaked out or pissed and Steve needed to fucking say something!  

Steve was thinking about what to say, staring at the back of Bucky’s head and noticing how the brown waves of his long hair peeked out from under the straight edge of his light blue hat, so he missed whatever triggered the outburst...

He snapped back to reality when Bucky yelled, “listen Stark, I need fucking coffee to deal with your bullshit. So lay the fuck off!”

“Coffee!!!” Ezra hollered, his hangover rendering him an even more self-centered bastard than usual.

“Plus,” Bucky shouted, “it’s almost time for the mother fucking ‘Morning Sing-along’ and the goddamned ‘Morning Dance Party’ so keep your dirty looks and rude hand gestures to your fucking self until you fulfill those three morning requirements! Jesus Christ!”

Sam cracked a smile and Steve felt something like pride.

“Who made you the boss? Tony Danza?” Tony snapped back.

Bucky turned a corner sharply like he was emphasizing his point, “Well I’m driving, so it looks like Steve made me the boss asshole!”

“Oooooooo, burn!” Sam reached around to slap Tony on the knee but he accidentally hit Scott instead.

“Hey, hey, I’m a person here. Geez, a little respect or something.” Scott pushed Sam back to the front. “That hurt!”

Scott and Sam and Tony kept shoving each other around as Bucky parallel parked the Escalade in a tight spot three blocks down from Starbucks. Steve caught Bucky’s eye in the rearview and the tiny smile Bucky gave him made his stomach flip flop. How did he do that? Just a simple glance to tell Steve he wasn’t mad, and that he was okay, and that they were okay.

Bucky let his eyes drop but Steve caught him smiling into his lap before he yanked out the keys and said, “c’mon assholes, coffee time.”

Ezra popped up like a reanimated corpse, “Fucking finally!”

*****

 

How the fuck had he ended up chauffeuring these assholes around New York fucking city at eight-thirty in the goddamned morning? Because yes, Tony fucking Stark, he _is_ gay and he _is_ driving your rich, pompous ass around; so you can call him a ‘gay chauffeur’ if you fucking feel the need. Bucky can live in that truth. What he really wanted to know was why the hell was Tony Stark even in this obnoxious car in the first place? He’s not on the swim team. He has no reason to be in this stupid car torturing Bucky with ten-thousand unoriginal gay jokes while he ‘chauffeurs’ them to East River Park for Saturday conditioning! This guy is supposed to be a genius right? Doesn’t he go to college or something? Shouldn’t he be building a rocket or developing Artificial Intelligence that will lead the human race to imminent destruction like The Matrix? Because so far, the only genius level skills he’s witnessed The Great Tony Stark performing included a real talent for chugging beer and a god-given gift for being the world’s most irritating, occasionally somewhat funny, dickface. God, he never fucking shuts up! Does he? Ever?! How does Steve put up with his mouth all the time?

Whatever, he’s got his favorite fall Venti Chestnut Praline Frappuccino with extra whip nestled in the spaceship’s fancy leather cupholder and that cute cuddlebug Steve Rogers sitting behind him sucking really hard on his straw trying to get his Venti Vanilla Bean Frappuccino with extra whip (Bucky’s excellent suggestion) into his mouth. Bucky secretly hoped that he was completely unsuccessful and had to keep right on sucking; because that, right there, was a fantastic view! Yeah, Steve Rogers was really good at sucking on things, all sorts of things, which he never would have imagined in his wildest dreams. Oh yeah, Bucky glanced into the rearview, Steve was still sucking and he laughed to himself. He felt Sam give him a look. Oh, if he only knew...

Even though Tony was being rude and obnoxious and was staring at him in the mirror over his mirrored aviators and his black Americano with the judgemental electroshock glare of Mike Pence, Bucky had to admit that Steve’s friends weren’t as bad as he’d thought all these years. Scott seemed kinda goofy and a little lost but wasn’t dicky at all. Ezra was just ignoring him which was totally fine. Sam actually seemed...cool? Was he cool? He was still undecided, but he did tell Tony to ‘shut the fuck up’ so that was a big blue check in the ‘cool’ column for Sam Wilson. Maybe this wasn’t gonna be as weird as he thought it was? He peeked at Steve who had given up on the sucking (damn) and had taken off the lid to just slurp the yummy goodness right out of the cup. Oh, baby jesus help him, he had whip cream on the tip of his nose and around his lips and he was going to crash this car! He was gonna crash Steve’s car right into the back of this Meijer semi truck!

Who was he kidding? Everything about this was weird, except for the feeling of Steve wrapped around his back this morning. That was just wonderful. No. It was wonderfully weird. He sighed. Better to live in the wonderful world of denial for awhile longer and just enjoy the delectable fall flavor explosion in his mouth. He started messing with his phone, shoving the aux cord in and quickly pulled up what he was looking for. A very powerful ‘fuck it’ rolled across his frontal lobe.

“OK attention rich people, we all have our delicious coffee so step one is complete. Step two is the mandatory, Steve, did you hear that? ‘ _Mandatory_ Morning Dance Party’, so everyone in this stupidly fancy car better fucking participate!”

“Oh good god,” Ezra muttered, his long legs sticking up between Scott and Tony’s heads, “What the hell is he rambling about?”

Scott scooched forward between the seats and wedged his hands under the headrests. Excitedly swinging his face Bucky’s direction, he said, “I like dancing!”

Steve started snickering and Bucky counted that as a win.

“Mandatory” Bucky said in his best authoritative voice, which was actually pretty bossy. He impressed himself.

“OK Bucky, mandatory,” Steve chuckled.

Tony obviously couldn’t keep his big mouth shut for longer than five goddamn minutes because he started right back up again, “Steve, why are you letting Kate Mck….”

Bucky did not care to listen to Tony Stark for one more second, or ever again really, so he dramatically hit play and cranked the volume. Damn, Steve did have a bumpin’ sound system in this spaceship! Whoooo! The thumping bass of Ginuwine’s ‘Pony’ started shaking the whole car and Bucky just went for it, because why the fuck not?

Sam side-eyed Bucky across the council with a confused cock to his head, but then a slow smile spread across his face and he started bouncing his head to the beat. “Oh man, are you for real right now?” He started shifting a little in his seat, “yeah, I can feel this.”

“Hell yes, that’s one!” Sam Wilson had joined ‘The Morning Dance Party’ and Bucky felt like he’d just summited Everest! Bucky allowed his shoulders to sway back and forth as he slowly pushed his hips back into the seat. Movement in the rearview caught his attention and no fuckin’ way! Scott was doing a very very white guy dance that involved duck lips and weird head bobbing and he could see Ezra’s giant feet doing a slow sway. “Woooo that’s two _and_ that’s three! He shoved the fucking gay pride flag in that top of that mountain! “Steve, mandatory!” He dramatically tossed his hat to the floor by Sam’s feet and flipped his hair over his shoulder so he could peek at Steve directly.

He was turning a little red but he also had an amazing smile on his face. But the really amazing thing was when he started rolling his shoulders too. Steve was dancing! They all were dancing! Well, not Tony. Because Tony is stupid. Stupid and staring at everyone around him with a look of totally disgusted shock on his stupid smug face.

“Hey,” Tony grumbled and elbowed Scott. “Don’t encourage this shit Lang! Don’t think I don’t see that Steve! And Ezra, frankly I thought you were more stuck up than this. I’m disappointed you’re so easily influenced by Watermelon Schnapps up there! Sam!” Tony kicked the back of the seat. “You are no help up there with your ‘Single Lady’ Beyonce moves! What the hell is even happening? Am I stuck in a Flash Mob? Is this some…”

Bucky yelled over him “Mandatory!” and did a few full body rolls as he accelerated onto the freeway and Steve outright laughed and Tony Stark shut the fuck up and it was beautiful.

The song ended and Bucky thought he should just go right ahead and press every bit of luck he had. He hoped some of the Lucky Charms’ four leaf clovers were still flowing through his bloodstream and powering him up with their sugary magic. “OK people, I’m actually pretty impressed that you Posh Spices have some moves, so I’m gonna go ahead and graduate you to my third mandatory morning activity; ‘The Morning Sing-along.”

Sam silently laughed into his chest and slapped his thigh.

“Singing is awesome!” Scott got a huge grin and slurped his smoothie.

“Scott, I’m officially taking you off my asshole list.” Bucky flipped his right hand up for a backwards high five. “Steve totally sucks at the ‘Mandatory Morning Sing-along’, but I’m willing to give him another shot if he can remember the rules. Steve?” Bucky was pushing eighty, and he pulled the wheel into the fast lane. Man, money bought a nice suspension!

“Ha, ok,” Steve looked amused, “Um, the first rule is, um, no laughing at you unless you are funny as fuck.”

“Which I always am.”

Scott slapped Bucky’s shoulder, “I think that’s actually true. You _are_ a very funny guy.”

“And number two”, Steve continued, “is you have to sing even if you don’t know the words.”

“Bingo!” Bucky pushed the button so Billy Idol’s ‘Rebel Yell’ annihilated everyone’s eardrums. Of course they all eventually joined in, because nobody can resist yelling “more, more, more” over and over with a London Punk sneer plastered on their face while wildly pumping their fist and flying down the freeway at nine o’clock in the fucking morning!

Then there was a miracle. A full on Christmas Day sweet baby jesus chillin’ with donkeys miracle! Bucky saw Tony sigh, look disappointedly at Scott who was happily singing and excitedly fist pumping and then glare at Ezra who was now leaning against the back corner half-heartedly singing and lazily fist pumping, and then growl at Sam who was pretty convincingly singing with a British gutter-punk accent and duck-face fist pumping, and finally over at Steve, oh Steve, who had actually figured out the definition of ‘mandatory’ and was quietly singing and subtly fist pumping. Tony rolled his eyes in the most exaggerated eye roll Bucky had ever seen and he said, “Fine. Fuck you,” before starting to begrudgingly sing and begrudgingly fist pump.

 Bucky felt a strange sense of pride, and maybe a little mad at himself for writing all these people off. Yeah, they’d been massive dicks over the years, and they hung out with even bigger dicks, but honestly maybe he’d been a dick too. Ugh, he hadn’t consumed enough delicious sugary frozen coffee to think that deeply yet so he set that ‘Deep Thought with Jack Handy’ aside for later and yelled at the top of his lungs, “with a rebel yell, he cried more, more, more” and thought that Billy Idol’s words couldn’t ring more true.

*****

 

Great, Tony thought, this Weirdo can sing. Really really sing. Eddie Vedder, Chris Cornell, Robert Plant sing and goddammit did that piss him off! Look at these traitors, happily skipping over the gay rainbow, singing and dancing with their new leader: Grunge Liberace. But Grunge Liberace loves Billy Idol, and Tony loves Billy Idol! Dammit they _both_ love Billy Idol which means they have something in common! Oh great, look at that. Now he’s singing too. Beetlejuice himself must be spooking this car and making Tony sing ‘Rebel Yell’ against his will! At any second he’s going to start singing ‘Day-o, Daaaaay-o…”. Winona Ryder must be cracking up with her horde of stolen purses somewhere. If you sing “Me say day, me say day-o” in the middle of a forest can Winona Ryder hear it in Hollywood?

And to top it off while he was busy singing and raising his fist with Kurt Cobain’s brunet cousin and the peroxide genius Billy Idol, Tony just went ahead and had the stupidest idea in Carl Sagan’s ‘Cosmos’. He never has stupid ideas, because he’s a genius! But this was a stupid idea worthy of Newton, gravity changing and bold, and that just made him mad. Apples everywhere.

Billy let out one more triumphant ‘more more more’ and Tony leaned past Scott towards the Weirdo chauffeur and flipped off the stereo. “Ok, Priscilla Queen of the Desert, I have passed your three brutal and embarrassing trials of gayness, except the coffee, that was a good trial, and not intrinsically gay, even though half of you are drinking little girl drinks. You call that coffee Scott!?”

“No, um, it’s a mango smoothie, so not really. Not at all.” Scott leaned as far towards Steve as he could to escape Tony’s warpath and fell over onto Steve’s legs as Bucky aggressively switched lanes to get off at the exit. “Sorry Steve, geez.”

“Exactly!” Tony pushed his body even further towards the front seat, “So are you and Captain Silent over here gonna explain why you were the epitome of fluffy Disney kittens snuggled together in a toasty warm basket all night? I mean seriously, there were little animated hearts floating around your Aristocats love fest!”  

Tony watched as Steve and Weirdo tried to communicate through the rearview with a series of headshakes….

“Oh I see, Caitlyn Jenner, have you telepathically transferred some gay code to Steve through osmosis? I mean the way you two are looking at each other right now is just like Alec and The Warlock of Eyeliner at opposite ends of that Tumblr exploding wedding aisle.”  

Steve sighed and turned to Tony, with a very serious dramatic pause. He moved his jaw in that over exaggerated way that instantly makes him look like the President in Chief or a valiant Superhero and he looked like he was really conflicted. Or something….

“Captain Ahab….?” Tony stared right back at his patriotic jawline. He wasn’t backing down from this because he wanted answers dammit!

Steve sat up straight, with instantly perfect posture and the pause was so dramatic and so long that Tony thought he might die of old age before the payoff. Finally, Steve seemed to steel himself, took a deep breath and said, “I like him. Ok? That’s it. I like him.”

Tony could hear Bucky inhale and saw his hands tighten their grip on the steering wheel. Actually the whole car inhaled, except Sam. Sam was fucking smiling at Steve because as Tony said before, Sam is a dirty dirty liar.    

“So let me get this straight,’ he leaned across Scott’s lap poking a finger right in Steve’s stupid chest, “you have one accidental Sulu and politically correct movie husband cuddlefest and suddenly you’re completely confused about your sexuality?!” Tony swung his head back and forth between Steve and Weirdo as they turned down the street to the track.

Weirdo looked like he was getting mad. Good! Come in here and make Tony’s people sing and dance like Fred Astaire, and mess up the whole dynamic of everything... who the hell does he think he is!? But then he could tell Steve was getting mad too because his nostrils were doing that flare thing. He looked at Weirdo again through the mirror and there was some more of that secret gay telepathic morse code before Steve gave him a quick sly smile and nodded.

“Are you two fucking serious!? How can the gay have spread so quickly into your brain Steve? You let this weirdo contaminate you!”

“Tony,” Scott shoved at him, “can you please, like, get off me, you’re hurting my legs dude.”

Scott was so fucking whiny and he ignored him completely, “Steve, buddy, you’re just upset over Sharon, she’ll take you back. Just talk to her Monday. This is just...you’re just confused.” Tony got painfully jerked forward against his seatbelt as Weirdo violently turned the truck into the parking lot and slammed on the breaks.

“Hey, you made me spill my coffee!” Ezra screeched from the back.

Weirdo swung his head around and locked his steel blue eyes with Tony and well, ok, Tony actually felt a little fear because Rainbow Bright looked furious under all that hair.

“You know what Tony?” he sneered, “Steve didn’t seem _at all_ confused Thursday night when he was _fucking my face_ _and_ _coming down my throat_!”

Sam did a full on coffee spit take all over the dashboard and Tony had a ridiculous thought: spilled coffee in the back and spit coffee in the front. Oh, there was a good gay joke in there somewhere but he too busy watching the chaos surrounding him to figure it out. Scott was snapping his head back and forth between everyone so quickly he looked like he was getting whiplash. Sam was trying to mop up the coffee with a few crumpled napkins while muttering “good one man, good one.” And Ezra continued screaming, “now I need more coffee asshole!” Tony found it funny that Ezra was more concerned with his damn coffee than the fact that Steve was _fucking a guy’s face_!  

As for Tony? Well, that juicy revelation shut him right the hell up. He audibly snapped his jaw closed, leaned back against the leather, pursed his lips and slowly nodded. So that’s it. It took him about thirty seconds to realize he was hurt. He looked over at Steve with his blonde hair, and All-American-Everything, noted that he was smiling a shy smile and chuckling, and thought _well fuck_. The way he was looking at Bucky Barnes was a way Tony had never seen him look in all the years they’ve been friends. He looked...happy. In over three years of movie nights and video game extravaganzas and wicked parties and joking at school, he’s never looked at Tony like that. What did Bucky Barnes do to Steve in a fucking week to make him look like that? Was it the dick sucking? Or something else entirely? Tony didn’t think that kind of smile was born from just a stellar blow job.

Obviously everyone was staring at him, waiting to hear his grand reaction. Well, there was nothing he could do about it now, so he took a deep breath, crossed one pristine white sneaker across his knee and said, “So Bucky, you’re obviously coming to my 90’s Rave party tonight then right?” All heads snapped to Tony in complete disbelief at the shift. He couldn’t really blame them, he _had_ been pissing all over Steve for the last fourteen hours. “I mean, if ‘Captain LikesCockNow’ wants you to attend of course…”

“So wait, let me get this clear Stark,” Bucky shoved open his door and swung his long legs out onto the blacktop. “You torture me, bully Steve, throw every gay insult you can think of at us, and suddenly you want me to go to your fucking party? Forgive me if I’m expecting you to drop pig’s blood all over me when I get there. Should I wear a white dress just to make it extra dramatic for you and your stuck up friends?”

Tony kicked open his door too, and everyone else obviously lept out, anticipating that ‘Fight Club’ was happening, right here right now. Maybe Bucky should play “Beat it” on his handy little music player since that seemed to be his thing. ‘The Morning Rumble with Michael Jackson’ could be his new ‘mandatory’ morning requirement. Tony stormed around the hood of the car and stepped in front of Bucky, the rest of them surrounding them in their zippered leather motorcycle jackets and red and blue bandanas. That’s what Tony pictured anyway. Taking center stage he puffed up his chest and tipped his head up to look at Bucky. Huh. He really had to look up because the dude wasn’t little. Maybe he’d been Hunchback of Notre Dame’ing it before or something? Or maybe Tony had never actually stood in such close ‘red rover red rover’ proximity, but now he was eye level with Bucky Barnes’ surprisingly angular jaw and he felt the sudden urge to buy taller shoes. Steve stepped up right behind his shiny new boyfriend’s shoulder and they were almost the same height. Great: tall and taller, dumb and dumber, Superman and Evil Superman. He pushed his silver aviators down his nose and leveled Bucky with his best ‘Do I have to explain everything? Stare’.

“It’s a pretty simple equation George Michael. You had the balls to put me in my place. That takes some really big Elephant Man balls. You see, I _like_ people that stand up to me. I’m self aware enough to admit I’m an obnoxious dick, I’m pretty proud of it actually, and if everyone kissed my gorgeous ass all the time I’d get totally bored. Plus you can sing, and I had the epiphany that I need you to sing in my Rock Band competition so we can finally pound Peggy’s estrogen fueled team into the cold hard ground. Oh, and invite your friend Sid Vicious. He looks like he can play something; drums I hope. Please say he can play drums because Bruce sucks. I’m totally Steven Adler’ing his off-beat ass! Plus he sells weed right? Does he sell other stuff? My glorious party is a tribute to all things rave and neon and kandi kid so we need some E! He needs to ‘Pineapple Express’ my party! We need the full ‘Go!”

“Wow man, just fuckin’ wow.” Bucky took a step back towards Steve and glanced over his shoulder. It looked like he was asking his new ‘blonde adonis boyfriend’ if it was ok to continue arguing with said ‘blond adonis’ best friend’. Yes, _his_ best friend! Sam can sit on the left side of the table, the chair on the right belongs to him!

But then Steve shot at look at him that made him feel a stabbing pain in his chest. Steve looked betrayed, and disappointed, and so goddamn righteous and he had the nerve to inch even closer to Bucky Barnes’ back so together they formed a solid wall. He rolled his eyes and thought; Yeah okay I get it big guy, you’ve got his back. Metaphorical much?

Bucky had that audacity to laugh right in his face before reaching out his arm to slam the car door. “First of all _Tony_ ,” he looked like he was going to punch him. Was this kid gonna punch him!? “I have about a million mother fucking problems with everything that just poured out of your stupid mouth. Is it your grand plan to just call me every gay celebrity’s name? ‘Cause that’s not very original for a supposed genius. Eventually you’re gonna run out because the closet is still large and full asshole.” Yeah, he was about to get hit. Hard. “Secondly, there’s no way in hell I’m going to your fucking party just so you can just use me to win at Rock Band. That’s bullshit!” He stepped forward into Tony’s space, oh here it comes, and Steve matched his movement. Nice. Nice Steve, appreciate the loyalty. “And thirdly, Clint, yes his name is Clint, will not be used for your convenience either. That was some of the most offensive, pretentious, and entitled crap I’ve ever heard in my entire life, and believe me I’ve heard tons. Fuck you Stark!”

Bucky reached forward and shoved him backwards. This little fucker, who wasn’t at all little, and was stretching out _his_ shorts with his perfect ass, just shoved him! In all his life nobody had ever dared to lay their hands on him and Tony had to admit he was actually pretty impressed.

“Oh shit.” Scott’s eyes were bugging out of his head.

Sam stepped up behind Tony and said, “c’mon guys we’re already late and Fury’s gonna make us run extra miles.”

Tony ignored them both and looked right over Bucky’s shoulder. “Oh, he’s a firecracker Rogers, I see why you like him.”

Steve looked like he was about to step around Bucky and punch Tony himself. The last time he looked that mad was when he’d put his excellently crafted, MIT engineered, glam rock glitter bombs into every vent in his Escalade. Oh, and the time he reprogrammed his phone to say “Tony Stark is my hero” every time it rang. Oh, and also the time he sent Steve a giant teddy bear for Christmas and had it delivered to Alexander’s. Yeah, that one was the worst because Steve had shown up with a cut across his cheek the next day and he wouldn’t talk to Tony for a week. OK, so he supposed this look from Steve was actually pretty familiar, but he still he raised his hands in surrender because he wasn’t a total dick. Well, he was, but he didn’t want Sigfried and Roy to sic a white tiger on him. Or maybe _he_ was Roy and Weirdo was the tiger? Tony did not want to end up like Roy.

“Fine, fine, fine, allow me to apologize Lance Bass. I’m gonna venture into the land of sentimentality for a moment, so everyone get ready to witness a first.” Tony stepped back and did a little curtsey, which made Ezra crack up. “Please Bucky Barnes, come to my excellent Chemical Brothers party because I haven’t seen Steve smile like he is right now EVER. Well, he actually looks really pissed right now, but earlier he was smiling a megawatt Crest Whitening Strips sunshine smile that was shining bright like a diamond, please sing that with me right now. I know you like sing-alongs. ‘Shine bright like like a diamond, shine bright like like a diamond’. “And let’s all be honest for once, he really needs some sunshine in his pathetic ‘Mommy Dearest’ life.” Tony paused his excellent speech to look up at Steve and saw that he’d relaxed his black and blue face just enough that he felt safe to continue. “And if you, Bucky Barnes would like to join our superfun Rock Band gang, and bless us with that glorious voice and your sexy ‘Magic Mike’ dance moves in order to beat my nemesis Peggy Carter, I would be eternally grateful. And should you, Bucky Barnes, like to bring your bestie Clint Barton,” Tony cleared his throat and muttered under his breath, “Johnny Rotten”, oh he was gonna get punched, “along for the ride, he is most welcome at my DJ AM tribute, sans drugs, even though we really need E to make this party authentic ‘Go!’ material, but it’s fine. It’s fine. He can come simply because he’s the Sid to your Nancy and I need some cultural diversity at this shindig anyway.” Bucky raised his eyebrows and crossed his arms, “Oh, don’t you have those other weird people you hang out with too? The Freaks _and_ The Geeks? You can bring them too, just because I’m such a generous guy.” Tony bowed his head and offered out his hand, “So what do you say Ellen Page? Will you come to my ‘24 Hour Party People’ party, pwetty pwetty please.” He gave him the big brown incredibly obnoxious puppy dog eyes that were his specialty and leaned on Sam’s shoulder. “Stevie wants you to come out and play, look at that newly gay cheesecake hovering behind you, he’ll be lost without you.”

Bucky sighed and rolled his eyes, totally leaving Tony’s hand hanging there unshaken and turned around to address Steve more than Tony. “It’s up to Steve if he wants me there,” he sappily stared like a Disney Princess directly into Steve’s big blue eyes. “We aren’t going public with this. I hope you’re capable of respecting that. All of you.” Bucky looked through his hair at each person surrounding him, “I’ve taken enough shit from you and your snobby friends for way too fucking long for you to think it’s cute to tell everyone about us and give them more ammunition just for your fucking amusement.” Prince Charming nodded at Bucky and he continued, “so if I did go to your party it would be on Steve’s terms.”

There was that sappy happy dippity-do-da smile again. They were staring into each other’s eyes like Walt Disney drew them personally and it made Tony want to punch Steve in his perfect teeth. These fools were standing right in front of him talking without even acknowledging that he was standing right fucking here! Was Tony even really here? Was he invisible? Was he Bruce Willis and didn’t realize he was dead? Tony turned to Sam and said, “can you see dead people?”

“Of course I want you to come Bucky,” Steve said softly like he thought Bucky was a ludicrous little deer for suggesting otherwise. He reached his hand out like he was going to touch Bucky’s arm, but then he did a full stop and joined him on the front line, standing shoulder to shoulder instead. Steve looked at the rest of them, all just waiting to see Brad Pitt smash Jared Leto’s supermodel face. Oh, look at that, Steve does know someone else exists after all. “I’m not ready to, umm, come out, woah,” he chuckled, “I just said that out loud. Wow, ok. Because seriously guys, I just figured out I’m gay about thirty-six hours ago, and that’s a little, a lot, intense. So yeah, if you guys can be cool about this,” Steve looked at Bucky before turning back to the blood-thirsty audience leaning against his car, “and basically keep your mouths shut, we could maybe come.”

Something dawned on Tony, and he tried to maintain his newfound sense of generosity and friendship and not rescind the invitation right then and there. “Wait, were you even planning on coming Steve?” Oh, that son-of-a-bitch. Bros before hos mother fucker!

“Honestly I wasn’t. Um, this has obviously been a crazy few days, for more reasons than one,” Steve subconsciously touched the bandages plastered all over his forehead, “but if Bucky wants to go, it could be fun. Honestly, I could use a few drinks.”  

“Martini’s all around,” Ezra said with fake enthusiasm and obvious boredom through his pitch black Gucci sunglasses.

“No, I told you it’s a theme Ezra! Glow in the dark shots all around!” Tony clapped his hands together. “Great, it’s settled! Ellen and Portia and ‘not bringing drugs’ (please bring drugs) Barton will be joining us tonight for the epic Stark Party fun! Oh and those other people too,” he flicked his wrist like he was batting at flies, “whoever they are.”

“You know damn well who they are Tony.” Sam sounded so done with his shit.

“Ugh fine, Skinner and Daisy too. Harvey Milk can bring his entire gang to enlighten all of San Francisco.”

Sam pushed off the car. “See was that so hard?”

“Yes actually, it hurt my soul.”

Bucky pulled a purple hair tie off his wrist and smoothed his hair back into some sort of artistic man bun. “You just aren’t gonna quit with the names are you?”

Tony chuckled and started walking towards the doors, “Not in a million years Ricky Martin.”

“Well then, I’m just gonna call you Asshole.”

Tony slapped Bucky’s back as he walked by before catching Steve’s eye and giving him a small smile. “Sounds like a fair trade KD Lang.”

*****

 

“I get it man, he _does_ have a nice ass.” Sam lifted his chin towards Bucky’s back as he ran about fifty feet in front of them around the oval track. He had a hard enough time keeping up with Steve and now Bucky was outpacing both of them. Every time one of them passed Fury, who was standing on the fifty yard line with a giant megaphone, he yelled something to the effect of: “You gonna let that boy kick your ass on land too Parker?”, “You just like losing, huh Rollins?”, “Brock, you get suspended for two days and you forget how to run?”, “Way to make yourself look good Charlie, gonna let him lap you huh?” and Sam’s personal favorite, “I’m ashamed of you Ezra! You think I don’t know you’re hungover? Move your drunk ass!” Through it all Bucky just kept on running at the front of the pack with long graceful strides. Damn, Sam was getting tired.

Steve swerved out of his lane and knocked into Sam’s shoulder. The guy was barely breaking a sweat. “Shut up Sam, it's not like that.”

“I know man, I'm just messin’ with you.” They ran another quarter of a lap before he had to say it, “but if it’s not like that, then what exactly _is_ it like?”

Steve stared at him and they passed Tony, who was spread out on the bleachers video conferencing, but of course he still took the time to yell, “so you recruited Prefontaine huh? Where does he keep his gold medal?” before continuing the conversation with his laptop like he hadn’t said anything at all.

Sam watched Steve’s eyes track Bucky’s movements in front of them. I mean Sam loved beautiful curvy ladies, _all_ the beautiful curvy ladies, but he was cool enough to see that Bucky Barnes was an attractive dude. Under all that hair and all the shit he piled all over himself he was...good looking. Sam had kinda suspected for awhile that Steve might be something not quite straight. After shit went wrong with Peggy, she gave him some inside scoop about what really went down. That’s when he first started thinking something might be up because Steve’s version of what happened and Peggy’s version of what happened were very very different. Then, Sam watched as Steve kept passing up these beautiful bettys left and right. Sure, he’d make out with girls at parties, but that was always it; no matter how hard they threw themselves at him. Then Sharon happened, and it was Peggy all over, just much quicker. But Steve never said anything, which meant he obviously didn’t feel the need to talk about it, or deal with it, so Sam just went with the flow. Did he think ‘my best friend Steve is totally gay?’ No…? Maybe? He didn’t know. But he wasn’t surprised, if that makes sense.

So here they were, chasing after the kid who was smoking their asses right now while Steve made starry eyes.

“C’mon Steve! You’re the Captain! Don’t let Barnes beat you!’ Fury hollered as they came around lap six.

Sam tried again, “dude, you gonna tell me how it is or not?”

Steve looked nervous and he let his pace slow a little bit. “It’s all been kinda fast Sam,” he blew out an uncertain breath, “but there’s something about him that just makes me feel...god, I don’t know...grounded?”

“He have anything to do with what happened with Alexander?”

“No, god no. Bucky found me after the swim meet and took me home. It was bad…”

“Obviously.” The bruises were horrible this time, and the cut on his forehead was no joke.

“And he just, he just made it better. I can’t explain it. I don’t understand it, but Sam, I just...it just feels right. For once I feel like I’m where I belong.”

They ran passed Ezra who’d collapsed in the grass on the back side of the track and Fury started screaming into his megaphone, “are you kidding me Ezra!? Get your lazy ass off that grass right now or I will call your mama and let her know your situation!”

He really shouldn’t have drank so many Martini’s. Sam shook his head, “so it’s gonna be a thing?”

Steve smiled and it looked good on him. “Yeah, I hope so.”

“I’m really happy for you man.”

“Sam, I’m sorry I’ve been out of it. I haven’t been a good friend lately and…” Oh fuck, the boy suddenly looked like he was gonna cry, like he flipped the sad switch.

“Steve.” Sam reached out and clapped him on his shoulder. “You’ve got so much shit you’re dealing with right now. It’s ok man.”

“It’s really not.” Steve shook his head, “I don’t even know what’s been going on with you lately. How are _you_ Sam?”

“I’m good man. I’ve got classes that are cake right now, my team kicked ass this week, I got to tell Tony to shut up a few times, and my best friend is expressing some love for me. Can’t get much better.”

Steve stopped in the middle of the track allowing Bucky to run away from them and Sam slid to a halt before backtracking. Brock blasted past them dripping sweat and growled, “fuck you Rogers!” as he ran by. Sam liked Brock less and less every day. Jack and Frank followed right after him and they both gave Steve dirty looks. Sam liked those two less and less every day too.

But that wasn’t important because Steve still looked like he was about to cry,  “Woah Steve, you ok?”

Steve just rushed forward and gave him a big solid hug right in the middle of lane three. It didn’t matter that Fury was screaming, or that everyone, including poor Ezra who looked like he was going to puke, ran right by. Sam could feel hope in that hug, and that was something that Steve had been needing for a very long time.

*****

Johnny Rotten’s cooler cousin: u want us 2 do what!?

Bucky: dress in raver pants with ring pops and go 2 Stark’s party 2nite.

Pushing Daisies: that’s a joke right?

Not Dylan O’Brien: he’s crossed over to the dark side and this is a trap.

Bucky: Nat and I will pick u up around 8/8:30

Pushing Daisies: ur really sticking with this joke Bucky?

Bucky: google “Kandi Kid”.

Not Dylan O’Brien: No

Johnny Rotten’s cooler cousin: Nat’s really going?

Bucky: yes Clint, Nat’s going. Google! I’ll bring glow sticks. C U at 8ish

Not Dylan O’Brien: No

Bucky: YES! Google it Skinner! 8. Candy necklace. Mandatory!

 

God Bucky was tired, and sore, and he’d just had his ears talked off by his dad about responsibility, and putting schoolwork first, and not getting taken advantage of, and not drinking, and not doing drugs, and if he did drink and do drugs to not be an idiot about it, and about condoms; _way_ too much about condoms, and paragraphs and paragraphs about not being allowed to go out with Steve Rogers every night, and thesis papers about not being able to spend the night with Steve Rogers every night because how old did he think he was?, and that he better get a good grade on his Psychology test Monday or this was the last party he’d get to go to for the rest of his life, and on and on and on. He’s glad his dad loves him, especially now that he’s witnessed Steve’s completely fucked up situation, but god, it took over a fucking hour to convince him to let him go to the party, and he only succeeded because Natasha was already going. Thank you Natasha!

He was definitely an idiot for agreeing to this. He was also totally an asshole for dragging his friends along for the ride, but he’d never been to a big high school party like this, and the stories Natasha had told him were insane! So sue him, he wanted to go. Plus... Steve. Duh. And once Stark sort of apologized, ok he didn’t apologize at all, but he kinda asked nicely, Bucky thought things could actually go in a cool direction…

This really was the plot of ‘Carrie’. He was telepathic and weird and never got to hang out with the cool kids and they were just luring him to the prom, and there was gonna be so much blood, and why was he so naive? Why was he so fucking naive to think they could all go from throwing bloody tampons at him for the past three years to wanting him to join a Stark party? Like, was it actually possible for him to mix with Steve’s crowd? After years of taking shit and moving things with his mind could it really be this simple? Probably not, but he still fucking wanted to go.

Then there was the mystery of Sam Wilson. Sam had actually been really cool to him. Bucky decided he was Steve’s ‘Samwise Gamgee’ and Frodo never would have made it to edge of that volcano without Sam! From now on Bucky would think about Steve’s ‘Sam’ as Frodo’s ‘Sam’ and just accept that shit. Scott had also been cool, in his super spazzy Scott way, and Ezra had...well Ezra basically continued to ignore him. Which was fine. But on the drive back, after Fury totally killed them by forcing them to run three mother fucking miles before they even started all the conditioning crap, Tony was being...not horrible. Maybe even a little bit funny. Then Steve actually gave him a hug when they dropped him off, in front of fucking everyone, which made Bucky feel all warm and fuzzy and proud because the dude was handling his brand new inner rainbow pretty damn well!

“Bucky, you’re spilling the bags,” Natasha laughed as she drove their dad’s Toyota past the obnoxious six story brownstones that lined the streets of Skinner’s neighborhood. He bet every single one had an elevator. And a dumbwaiter.

“Well stop driving like a maniac then!” Bucky laughed as he tried to shove ten thousand ring pops back into the ripping plastic bag.

Clint grabbed the back of Bucky’s seat and leered over his shoulder, his mohawk smashing against the top of the car. “Lemme see what ya got boo.”

“I’m not putting any of that on my body.” Skinner was sulking in the corner of the back seat with his arms tightly crossed and the hood of his grumpy black jacket pulled up over his grumpy brown head.

“Oh honey,” Daisy leaned over and gave him a kiss on his crabby cheek, “yes you are, don’t be a spoil sport.”

“Yeah, don’t be a mother fucking spoil sport!” Clint reached over and punched Skinner’s arm.

Skinner punched him right back, “I don’t support hanging out with those morons.”

Bucky finally got all the ring pops back in the bag but then Nat swung around another corner and they just spilled all over his lap again. Whatever. Bucky turned to Skinner, “Hate him if you will, but you can’t really call Tony Stark a moron.”

“It’s free booze dude,” Clint reached over and started grabbing ring pops off Bucky’s lap, flinging one at Skinner’s face, “put on a ring pop on it and lower yourself to the level of high school senior for one fucking night! Plus, Bucky’s getting boned by one of them now so...”

“I’m not fucking him!”

Natasha snorted.

“I’m not! Jesus, Skinner just take a fucking ring pop!” Bucky’s heart started racing and he tried to hide his freak out by shoving the ring pops into the bag with the pacifiers. Oh good god, _was_ he going to start fucking Steve Rogers!? Did he _want_ to fuck Steve Rogers? Yes. His brain quickly decided yes. So did his dick. It was unanimous.

“Yeah, be fun.” Daisy reached up with her gloved hand, her fingers popping out the holes, and yanked down Skinner’s hood.

“I’m plenty fun,” Skinner deadpanned staring right at Daisy over his very serious black hipster glasses.

“C’mon kiddies, Stark parties are an adventure,” Natasha winked at Bucky before honking at a taxi that cut her off.

“Fun for you,” Skinner scoffed and whipped the ring pop back at Clint’s head.

“OK, I’m done with Mr. Pessimist over here.” Bucky turned around and threw handfuls of glow stick necklaces and bracelets at all three of them. “Start opening these and cracking them, I bought like a thousand.”

He turned back around and continued distracting himself from the fact that _he wanted to fuck Steve Rogers!_ by digging around for the candy necklaces so he could pass one out to everyone. He and Nat also bought at least fifty ring pops for everyone. Candy pacifiers on neon zebra print strings for everyone. At least a hundred pink, green, yellow, orange and blue glowing necklaces and bracelets and rings for everyone. Plus extra of everything for Steve. Because Bucky bought stuff for Steve Rogers now. That was something he did. He slipped four candy necklaces over his head and threw three into the backseat. “Put these on Macauley Culkins, it’s time to party!” He leaned over and carefully squeezed one of Natasha’s mini buns and she smiled at him. He wanted mini buns too!

He’d worked really hard on his and Nat’s outfits, although he had to admit to having all the necessary clothes already. Come to think of it, yesterday he had all the white trash stuff already too. Does that mean he has super good retro taste or that he not-so-secretly wishes he grew up in the 80’s and 90’s? Maybe it meant both? He honest-to-god owned a pair of wide leg raver pants that were black with electric blue details and the actual straps that hung from silver clips down across his ass and between his legs. He found them on the clearance rack at Hot Topic last year for twelve ninety-nine and he obviously had no other choice but to adopt them and take them home to his closet right away. He dug a black Daft Punk tank top out of his closet that had the original red logo, and while he did possess _fucking amazing_ sneakers with light up soles he decided to tone it down just a tad and wear his electric blue Doc’s instead. He never toned anything down ever, but maybe announcing himself in flashing megawatt shoes that screamed ‘Hi! I’m Steve Rogers’ Super Gay Super Bright New Friend!’ was a little over the top. Blue Docs it was! He dug up a camo visor that he threw on backwards and decided to just let his hair go free range and wander wherever the hell it felt like wandering. He’d taste better that way. The night was just chilly enough for him to throw on his tight black leather jacket, correction: his _sexy as fuck_ tight black leather jacket that hugged his body in all the right places. Nat had also smudged a little black eyeliner on him and painted three neon green dots vertically under each eye. It was too much. Even without the glowing shoes he knew it was too much, but whatever. He truly gave no fucks. Stark said theme party, so he was giving him theme party!

Nat had a neon pink tutu over pink and black striped leggings and a tiny white crop top with ‘Deadmaus’ on it. He’d loaned Daisy a ‘Flume’ shirt, and thrown Clint a ‘Lords of Acid’ tank when he hopped in the car. Clint being Clint, and also trying to impress Natasha, yanked off the shirt he was wearing immediately and definitely waited five minutes too long before he finally pulled the tank on. Natasha just rolled her eyes in the rearview as Clint tried to nonchalantly flex his arm muscles and get her to notice his nipple rings. What a fucking idiot, Bucky chuckled. Clint’s all tough on the outside but when it comes to Natasha he turns into gooey butter and sticky syrup that just wants to melt all over her blueberry pancakes. Ridiculous.

When Skinner climbed in the car Bucky tried to hand him a wickedly cool ‘Prodigy’ t-shirt that he’d also adopted from Hot Topic, but he said “no way” and started to sulk. Peeking back at his now glowing best friends he was happy to see that Daisy had managed to wrangle at least one candy necklace over Skinner’s head although he still looked grumpy as fuck. Gotta start somewhere.

“I’ve gotta say Cupcake,” Clint wrapped both of his arms over the seat and around Bucky’s neck. “I’m pretty shocked that a cinephile like you missed this perfect 80’s teen movie moment. A car full of ‘have-nots’ traveling deep into the world of the ‘haves’? I mean, Bucky baby, we could be having a full fledged Molly Ringwald moment here!” He leaned even further forward, moving his hand in front of Bucky’s eyes like he was painting a scene across the dash. “Why didn’t you wear pink Bucky? What a missed opportunity! I bet Stark has a 1984 BMW 3 in his dad’s collection! Jesus Christ, we could recreate the entire John Hughes filmography! I can see it now”, he stretched both arms around Bucky’s shoulders and framed the shot with his hands, “Bucky Barnes, tragic gay outcast catches the eye of the Greek Adonis known as ‘The King of the Jocks’, Steve Rogers. In spite of the horrible odds, and everyone that schemed to keep them apart, Bucky, on the night of the Senior party, dresses up in his pink vintage suit and ends up kissing the King! And….scene.” He gave one final push over the seat and planted a wet kiss right on Bucky’s cheek.

God, he was so right! He _was_ Molly Ringwald, as a gay raver! “Jesus, shut up Clint!” Bucky tried to punch him in the arm but missed and hit one of his spiky earrings. “Ouch! Why are you so damn spiky?!”

“Gotta impress the ladies.” Oh my god, he totally just winked at Natasha.

Natasha smiled her signature crooked grin and put Clint right in his place, “Gonna take a lot more than thirty pointy things shoved through your body to impress me Barton.”

“Oh kitty cat, I only need one of my pointy things to impress you baby.”

Natasha swung the car into one of the reserved spots in front of Stark’s house, because of course Tony had magically reserved parking on a public New York City street. “Oh Clint, aren’t you cute,” she grinned, “and if you ever call me ‘kitty cat’ or ‘baby’ again I’ll cut that pointy thing you just referred to clean off your body. Got it kitty cat?” With that she slid out of the car and skipped across the street. Bucky thought Clint might cry.

“It’s ok buddy,” Bucky grabbed the bags and got out too, “she wasn’t mad about the dick reference, just the stupid names. There’s hope for you yet!”

He slammed the car door and looked up at the towering stone mansion. Standing there holding his thin plastic bags full of dollar store glow sticks and cheap elastic candy necklaces he felt like a fucking alien. Maybe Skinner was right. Maybe he was living in a candy colored fantasy stocked with go-go dancers and DJ’s. Maybe he would walk through that archway and Tony Stark and the rest of the assholes would snap back to their true forms and dump buckets of cold pig’s blood all over his super sweet raver outfit. Because honestly, that would make so much more sense.

*****

 

They’d been here for about an hour and nobody had killed them yet. The party, if that’s what you could even call it: The Rave?...The Event?...Ibiza?...was in full swing and it was mother fucking insane! Bucky had been right about the clothes, while there were some valiant efforts, not really...they were all pretty half assed, nobody else really nailed 90’s club kid aesthetic like Bucky and Natasha. Daisy and Clint looked good too but it was pretty hard to hide the punk and the goth with some candy and glowing plastic. And then there was Skinner, who was wearing a navy and white checked button up with black skinny jeans and black converse with, swear to god, a white skinny tie. Oh, and _one_ candy necklace. No fun.

There were lots of glow sticks and candy jewelry but that was pretty much the extent of it which really appeared to be pissing Tony Stark off. He, of course, looked pretty fucking awesome in a cut up ‘Crystal Method’ t-shirt and a really authentic looking Mad Hatter top hat. There were even tiny LED lights sewn into the hat band that were changing colors with the pounding bass. Then he saw them! Bucky couldn’t believe his eyes because Tony Stark was wearing mother fucking light up shoes! Tony Asshole Stark had light up shoes just like his! No fucking way! This made Bucky like him about one percent more. Ok maybe two percent, because he also had a pair of sick headphones wrapped around his neck and the green neon Kanye West sunglasses with the stripes across the lenses that you can’t see shit out of. Plus, and this was Bucky’s favorite part, he was already drunk and hollering at everyone about their lack of creativity. He kept shoving glowing shots in test tubes at anyone who got close to him while shouting things like: “maybe this shot will make you a fun person!” and “you’re just here for my liquor, you don’t care about my vision!” which was really balls to the wall. Okay, maybe he was starting to understand why Steve hung around this guy, he was like Cirque du Soleil on wheels.

Natasha had slung her arms around Skinner and Daisy when they’d first arrived, throwing Bucky and Clint a wink, before they disappeared into some side room where drum and bass was pouring out through the green marble archway. Bucky was highly amused when he saw Skinner thirty minutes later looking considerably less grumpy, actually _wearing_ the ‘Prodigy’ shirt _with_ his skinny white tie and animatedly talking to Bruce Banner about something that was obviously way above Bucky’s paygrade. Whatever magic potion was in Tony Stark’s glowing test tubes had successfully made Skinner way more accepting of these lower beings.

While everything seemed like fun and games on the surface, as Bucky and Clint walked through the first floor checking out all the themed rooms, he wasn’t missing the comments: “who the fuck let them in?”, “Stark must be lowering his standards”, “Oh great, poor people”, “look at his outfit, who does he think he is?,” but he just ignored them all and let Clint dole out the dirty looks. He’d put his purple mohawk up in full liberty spikes so these elitist fuckers were instantly intimidated. At least enough to keep the nasty comments under their breath.  

The upper floors were cool but the real party was in the basement where Stark had gone all out. The huge open room had exposed brick walls with shiny wood floors and whatever furniture there was had been moved out of sight or shoved to the edges of the room. The  entire space was transformed into a huge dance floor that was crammed with at least a hundred people. Bucky had never seen anything like it! Then there was the DJ. He wasn’t some shitty two-hundred dollar a night DJ. No, he was a fucking legit New York City club DJ called Godfather! And DJ Godfather came complete with a massive light show and a huge sound system and a tye-dye bucket hat and dark black sunglasses! How the hell could he see the decks through those things?  

Bucky couldn’t even imagine how much Tony had to pay the neighbors to ignore the bass that was definitely reverberating through the pipes all the way to the East River at this volume. It was so damn loud and it was so damn awesome! Not to mention the cost of the drinks that were floating around on shiny silver platters. Plus the cost of the chicks in white bunny ears and red vests that were carrying the shiny silver platters full of jello shots and glowing blue test tubes. It was un-fucking believable! Natasha had been holding out on him!

They’d been informed by a tall skinny guy in a costume that made him look like the six of hearts, complete with a pointy black staff, that ‘Tony Stark was a responsible party host who, although irresponsibly serving minors, was wise enough to insist that all party goers who chose to partake in his magical tea party must stay the night or take an Uber. The Mad Hatter was the key master, and all car keys must go into his giant glass bowl.’ He said it just like that, to every single person who walked in the door. How much did that cost and how did Stark explain that job description? Bucky totally bet that Stark wrote that speech and paid the dude to read it verbatim.

Bucky laughed as Nat dropped their dad’s keys into the overflowing bowl because Clint owned this super sweet porno about a swinging 70’s big bush key party that they always threw in the VCR when they needed a good laugh. Clint snorted behind him and Bucky knew they were on the same page. He wondered if Tony was thinking about bored suburban swingers in leisure suits when he came up with this whole concept? God he fuckin’ hoped so! Ok, so maybe now he liked Stark three percent more. Costumes and themes and jokes were Bucky’s cup of tea, oh my god, he just thought ‘cup of tea’! His brain was awesome! The whole key thing also proved that Tony was a heathen but not an idiot. Some tiny part of him actually gave a shit and that was an attribute that Bucky never would have associated with such a narcissistic egotistical billionaire asshole before today.

OK, but where in god’s name were Tony’s parents? After Natasha, Skinner and Daisy took off to wonderland Clint and Bucky grabbed some very expensive craft beers, that they’d never heard of, from an honest-to-god bartender with fuzzy orange cat ears! A fucking bartender at a High School Party wearing cat ears with shockingly exposed cleavage that made Bucky take a second look! Jesus! Clint got sucked into a room that had so much smoke wafting out of it that a person could get a contact high from fifty feet away. Weed wasn’t really his thing so Bucky wandered through the crowd alone, ignoring the rude comments, double checking each room before he finally came across Steve.

Bucky saw Steve notice his arrival. He was leaning against the white marble counter in the stainless steel kitchen. God it was too fucking white and too fucking shiny! He was drinking beer with Charlie and Harry; ugh, they were such awful stuck-up trust fund dicks, Rhodes; who was a pretty basic dick, Asshole; who tonight would be known as ‘Asshole Mad Hatter’, and worst of all Brock; the demonic homophobic bully who should have a building dropped on his fucking face! Bucky shuddered, god he hated that guy! Something about the way he looked at him at the track this morning made Bucky feel even more uncomfortable than usual. Bucky decided to ignore the asshole brigade and look at the hottie he was somehow sorta involved with, in a sorta top secret undefined something-or-other kinda way. Whatever, just look at him...

He’d totally failed at the Rave Theme, no surprise there, but he still looked hot as hell. His dark blue jeans were hugging his long sexy legs which Bucky happily oogled all the way down to his grey suede high tops Vans. Bucky had to stop himself from drooling as his eyes glided back up to Steve’s red canvas belt, which he instantly decided to name ‘the red belt of sex’, and up to the tight white polo that hugged every muscle of that glorious chest and oh good god did Bucky want to just...oh boner. Shit! Ok, time to walk away because these rave pants were like a goddamned tent. Plus there was no fucking way that Bucky was going to walk into that stainless steel octagon of doom so he simply stood outside the arched doorway long enough to let Steve drink him in. When Steve licked his lips and swallowed hard enough that Bucky could see the bob of his throat, he knew he'd made his point. Point being: ‘I'm not coming into that fucking room with those pricks you call friends, but I look hot as hell so you should come find me ASAP’.  

It was up to Steve now. Bucky was about to turn away to return to the source of the excellent Trap music that was blasting from the basement when he caught sight of Brock leaning over in front of Steve and glancing his way. “Hey, who the fuck was that!? Don't tell me somebody let that fuckin’ fairy in here!”

Trap music. Now. Bucky turned his back and heard Steve say, “Hey man, I told you not to talk about him like that”, before he let himself get sucked into the wave of bodies heading for the basement door. He didn't need this shit. Assholes like Brock Rumlow were the entire reason he’d avoided this world. Who the hell even raised kids like that anymore?! Whatever, at least Steve said something, and the glowing blue concoction the girl in the bunny ears was handing him looked pretty damn amazing right about now. Blocking out the homophobes with alcohol and house music? Great fucking idea! He put on his best ‘don’t fuck with me’ face and stepped into the cloud of fog pouring onto the makeshift dancefloor.       

As the first delicious gulp slid down his throat he felt a hand slap him on the shoulder. “Bout time you got down here cupcake. It's not a party till my bestie arrives.”

“Awww Clint, you know how to make a boy feel special.” Bucky was still annoyed, and he needed more of this drink to not be annoyed.

Clint flicked the crazy yellow straw with his ring covered finger. “What in god’s name are you drinking!? It has fruit floating in it! And it's glowing! And it has a curly straw!”

“Fuck if I know,” Bucky took a very generous suck on the awesome rollercoaster straw, “some chick in bunny ears gave it to me.”

“Well hopefully it cures whatever's got your panties in a twist.”

The yellow drink sure looked fun twisting through the blue loopty loops and he swallowed another huge gulp before correcting Clint, “boxer briefs.”

“Whatever bro, dig them outta your ass, finish your cocktail and come dance. I mean listen to this music! It's a crime that we are wasting precious seconds standing here arguing about your underwear. Can you believe this fog!?”

Clint was right, god this was a lot of fog! And a lot of lasers! Is this what it was really like in the 90’s? Fuck Brock, and everyone else with their stupid stuck-up rude mouths! He was here to have a goddamn good time and a goddamn good time he was going to have! So he sucked down the rest of his super delicious glowing drink, set it on some random table and let himself disappear into the repetitive pulse of the music.

*****

 

Steve ran his hands up and down the armrests of the fancy velvet armchair he was sitting on. The way an errant single blue laser was bouncing off the red texture was creating dancing purple shadows and it was easier for Steve to stare at the moving shapes than deal with what he was actually feeling. The chair was shoved off to the side of the basement, towards the the back corner. It was away from the DJ and out of the path of most of the lights and the fog was being pushed over it by the swarm of writhing bodies. So here he sat, hiding in a corner and obscured by fog, watching Bucky dance.

When Steve pushed his way through the meaningless bodies and down the dark stairs to find Bucky he didn’t know what he was going to do. It was different here than it was this morning and he was so angry for allowing himself to acknowledge the difference at all. After they dropped Bucky off in Brooklyn the guys had given him some shit, but not maliciously. He felt good giving him a hug goodbye but his mood shifted as he climbed back behind the wheel and made his way back to the penthouse. He knew he couldn’t hide from Alexander forever, even though he wanted to. Thankfully he was nowhere in sight, so Steve spent the afternoon in his corner sketching and writing and thinking and trying to figure out what the fuck just happened. His pencil kept drawing the contour of Bucky’s jaw, or the wavy overlapping curves of his hair, or doodling his ratty ‘Nirvana’ patch or flying swarms of bloody Vampire Bats. The words of a poem about paint and color flowed out and he felt...he missed him. How could he miss him so much already?

When he went into his monochromatic closet to pick out an outfit he thought about what Bucky would like, when he drove to Tony’s he wished Bucky was in the driver’s seat, when he got to the party he couldn’t wait for him to get there, but when Bucky came into his line of sight beyond the kitchen door he fucking froze. Even though it was a theme party and everybody was supposed to be in costume, Bucky stood out like a kaleidoscope on a white sheet. He was color, and candy, and he looked so beautiful and delicious and Steve just stood there! In front of Brock and James and the rest of them he just froze and he hated himself for it.

So he sat in the chair doing penance, shoved in a dark corner watching Bucky dance. It was what he deserved. He heard the people talking about Bucky and his friends upstairs. He listened to Brock spew his hate, and watched Harry and Charlie scoff, and he saw James sneer. Walking to the basement he overheard snippets of conversations about all of them. The people Steve called his friends were treating them like evil alien invaders bent on destroying their perfect materialistic world. It made Steve feel sick.

Steve felt thick emotions that were completely new as he watched Bucky laughing with Clint as they bounced and swayed to the hypnotic beat. Steve sat there, his face in the black shadows and watched other people noticing how Bucky moved; how his feet slid in liquid waves and the straps on his pants swayed enticingly as he rocked his hips. They may have been making fun of him upstairs and calling him the ugliest of names, but once they witnessed how he danced Steve physically watched the realization happen. The girls in their pigtails and short skirts started turning their heads to _really_ look, to _really_ notice him. He watched TJ Campbell pretending not to see him, but no matter how hard the Senator’s son tried to pretend he was staring at the skinny brunette with the tiny orange short shorts, his eyes kept swaying back to Bucky and they were filled with desire.

Steve gripped the velvet tighter under his fingers and felt his pulse quickening as the first girl let go of her prejudice and asked him to dance. Her name was Bobbi, and Steve knew her as one of the hot girls from the junior class. She snaked up to Bucky and smiled at him, her white teeth glowing in the black lights, and shook out her long blond hair. Steve felt his molars grind as she slotted her ass against his hips. He sat in his corner and watched Bucky’s beautiful strong hands, with his thin wrists surrounded by a thousand glowing circles, slide up to hold her tiny waist and they started moving in a powerful grind as the music hit the drop. Steve scratched his fingernails along the fabric and heard the wood creak as he tried to swallow the lump in his throat because it wasn’t the drunk sloppy teenage dry humping that usually happened at Stark’s parties; it was sensual, perfectly synchronized motions that virtually dripped with sex. And Bucky looked powerful. And fuck, sitting in this thousand dollar chair, hiding in a cloud of fog, Steve was fucking _jealous_ of this girl! Not that Bucky was touching her, or that she was touching Bucky, but that _he_ wasn't the one dancing with him!

Then Bucky noticed him, tethered to his chair, and gave Steve the most beautiful kaleidoscope smile. He felt his boiling blood pressure lowering immediately, like that colorful smile was Steve’s ultimate cure. Steve released the pressure on the chair, leaving scratches in his wake and felt his muscles begin to relax. Every so often, Bucky would catch Steve’s eye when the single blue beam exposed his face, and grin or lower his eyes just right and Steve suddenly understood that Bucky wasn't trying to make him jealous, or to find someone else, or to shove the fact that Steve was a liar and a coward in his face. Bucky just loved to dance. And he was fucking beautiful. And Steve was still sitting in this goddamn chair!

Sam appeared out of the crowd and sauntered over to sit on the long wooden bench next to Steve. “Hey, I got you a Jack and Coke because that glowing shit scares the hell out of me.”

Steve silently took it, allowing the fog rolling across the floor between stomping feet to creep into his mind. Sam raised his eyebrows as he watched Steve watching Bucky get a very tipsy Sharon to dance with him. Steve has never, in over three years, seen the two of them talk before! But here Bucky was, convincing her to dance, being patient with her awkwardness and lack of rhythm and making her smile. Steve thought it was like watching a brilliant star drawing people in with its energy. Watching Bucky effortlessly making friends with his friends...why the hell had he kept himself separate all these years?

“Hey Rogers,” Clint was hovering over them, his mohawk creating a dangerous silhouette in the brilliant green lasers, “you look like somebody stole your new kitten. Your new brown long haired kitten that I know for a fact you named Bucky. Since those chicks stole my dance partner too, and in the spirit of burgeoning friendship, do you two wanna go smoke with me? I brought something extra special.” He pulled a giant joint seemingly out of nowhere and toggled it back and forth between his fingers. Steve wasn’t huge on smoking weed, but he couldn’t _just sit in this fucking chair_ getting more angry at himself for _just sitting in this fucking_ _chair_ for one second longer!

“Yeah Barton, let’s do that,” Steve said and pushed roughly off the velvet armrests before slamming his drink.

Sam’s eyebrows shot up and he side-eyed Steve.

“You in?” Clint was staring at Sam.

Sam stood up, “Sure, I do whatever he does, just without the underlying self loathing.”

*****

 

Steve sighed because Buffy was sitting really close to him and she kept trying to touch his leg and he kept trying to scooch over but Scott was sitting on the couch too and he couldn’t get any closer without squishing the poor guy. The fact that Tony had arranged the furniture in this room in three different circles and had actual hookahs in the middle was unbelievable enough, but there were also black light posters of mushrooms and caterpillars and The Cheshire Cat carefully tacked up all over the walls. The smoke filled room was just off the dancefloor so Steve could still picture Bucky swinging his hair to the pounding electronic drums that were drifting through the door.

Clint passed the giant joint to Scott who almost died when he hit it, and then almost dropped it when he tried to pass it to Steve because he was coughing so much. Buffy was trying to say something in his ear as he sucked in the smoke, but he didn’t care enough to translate the syllables in his brain. He handed her the joint without even looking and shoved her hand off his thigh again. Peter still looked shocked and nervous that he was willingly sitting across from Clint Barton, even though they’d been in here for at least fifteen minutes, and his eyes were huge as he took a hit.

Clint laughed, “yeah little man. That’s it.”

Steve followed the glowing orange light as it passed from Buffy to Peter, from Peter to Sam, from Sam to Ezra, from Ezra to Pepper, from Pepper to Clint, and back to Scott. Remarkable how all of these people, all of his friends, seemed so suddenly unfazed by Clint Barton’s presence. Well, that was a lie, they were totally fazed, but the guy had a giant joint rolled with primo shit so everyone was suddenly very open minded and accepting. Steve saw right through them. Bastards.

Clint was telling some obscene joke to Scott when they suddenly heard yelling from the dancefloor. Yelling that was loud enough to carry over the thumping beat.

“....the fuck off me you fucking prick!”

Oh shit, Steve’s heart stopped, that’s Bucky’s voice! He shoved Buffy, who was now trying to slide her hand under his shirt, off into the cushions and ran for the door.

“Oh honey, look at you. I got all confused and thought you were a girl, my bad. But c’mon who can blame me? You are wearing makeup you goddamned twink!”

Oh fuck that was fucking Brock! God dammit, god dammit! The sea of bodies had formed a tight circle around whatever was happening and Steve couldn’t see through all the fog and all the lights and all the bodies.

“I said don’t fucking touch me!”

“You don’t even belong here freak! Get me fucking suspended and have the nerve to show up here? I can do whatever the…”

Just as Steve desperately pushed past the last body to see Bucky chest to chest with Brock, and Brock’s fingers wrapped tightly around Bucky’s forearm smashing the glowing bracelets into his flesh, Clint shoved through the people on the other side, came up right behind Brock and grabbed him by the shoulder.

“Hey dickface!” Clint shouted, and Steve watched in the flashing strobe lights as Brock turned directly into a beautiful right hook.

“Oh shit!” Steve lunged forward into the middle just as the DJ cut the music.

“Oh you've gotta be fucking kidding me!” Brock shouted, rubbing his jaw and spitting blood onto the floor, “Sucker punched by the faggot’s reject sidekick? I see how it is. Sissy boy can't even fight his own fights. Gotta have a freak like you protecting that pretty little ass”.

“Shut the fuck up Brock!” Steve commanded. Every head in the dark foggy circle snapped around to stare at Steve and he caught sight of Sam and Tony standing directly behind him in his peripheral vision. “You're drunk, you’re being a complete dick, I told you not to fucking say that shit anymore and since you can’t control your goddamn mouth, you need to leave!” Steve stepped forward into Brock’s space. “Now!”

Brock had the audacity to laugh, lick his bloody lip and square his shoulders, “Ohhhh the Captain is sticking up for the little fruit huh? Ain't that grand. And cute. Maybe he'll suck your cock later as a thank you.”

Steve took one look at Bucky, his beautiful square jaw was tightly set, his upper lip was starting to curl, and his fists were clenched at his sides. He felt the tension in the air as every eye in that basement was glued to him to see what Captain Steve Rogers was going to do next, and he made the clearest decision of his life; he punched Brock Rumlow right in the fucking face. The audible crack of his nose was like music; satisfactory and epic. He went down like a ton of bricks, to a symphony of screams, cheers, swearing, and ‘is he deads?’. Frank ‘anger management’ Castle and Jack ‘the follower’ Rollins had arrived about four seconds too late and were screaming at Steve, launching specks of spit in his face as they defended their ringleader.

But amongst the chaos, standing tall in the middle of the room, Steve felt solid. This was who he was supposed to be. He was sick of putting up with assholes just because they were in his “circle”, he was sick of hiding who he truly was from everyone around him, he was sick of sitting paralyzed in a fucking antique chair in a dark corner, and he would stand up for Bucky fucking Barnes with everything he had!

Frank and Jack hauled Brock’s bleeding, woozy ass up the stairs, and a few people clapped Steve on the back. Then the music powered back up with an audible hum and it was over as soon as it began. After they disappeared from view at the top of the stairs Steve heard Sam say, “Steve man, that was crazy.”

“Well,” Tony materialized in front of him with his insane top hat, “he totally deserved that so I’m not gonna send you the very expensive carpet cleaning bill to get the trail of blood steamed out of my mom’s rugs.”

Steve really looked at Tony, his mouth moving but none of the words registering, and saw Bucky standing in shock beyond his shoulder, and he suddenly thought that he wanted to punch Tony in the face too. He _should_ have punched him in the car this morning! If Brock deserved it, then Tony did too. But the redundant tones of Tony’s useless words lost all meaning as the crowd began to undulate and the song built to its apex. The rest of it fell away and his sight visibly sharpened, focusing on one figure standing in the center of it all. Honing in like a ship lost in dense fog on the brilliant beams of lighthouse salvation he set his course and there was nothing except Bucky.

He was still frozen in the middle of the dance floor in that outfit, a still form in a sea of movement, just looking at Steve with eyes that seemed heavy. Jesus, the eyeliner. He’d been dancing so much that his face and body were glistening with a thin sheen of sweat and the black eyeliner was slightly smudged onto the skin below his big eyes. It made him look dangerous. Mysterious. The defined muscles in his shoulders and the ridges of his triceps stood out against the flashing lights, and the veins in his forearms created shadows that criss-crossed beneath the glowing circles. Steve wanted to follow each vein with the tip of his tongue and memorize its path. The hem of his tight tank top was riding up and his pants were hanging low so Steve could see the crest of his hipbones, jutting out slightly against the flat planes of his lower abs. He was dripping with candy, and Steve just wanted to eat it all.

The walls of the basement started folding inwards and spilling over with giant chocolate waterfalls and the flashing beams of light became bright red licorice and pink, green and blue strands of stretched taffy. The clouds of fog puffing out between hips and legs and arms morphed into floating cotton candy explosions and standing there, in the center of his secret factory, stood Willy Wonka himself. His pale face looked like he might be in shock, his long lashes blinking in half-time like an exotic owl. His blueberry Jester leaned over and whispered something in his ear, which he promptly shook off. The Jester said something else, clapped him once on the back then disappeared into the swirling ribbons of taffy. Willy Wonka blinked his eyes a few more times, the three dots beneath each eye glowing green like sparkling sugarcoated gumdrops, then finally offered up a tiny smile and Steve just _wanted_.

Bucky must have felt Steve's eyes getting more intense, so he turned on his heel, signaling with a tip of his head that Steve should follow. Steve felt the undeniable golden pull and followed him so so willingly. It was a psychedelic tunnel of light and hands and haze as Bucky steered them through the crowd and around a corner to a hidden alcove. Stopping his forward momentum Bucky leaned his back against the deep maroon wall. Red Velvet cake enveloped Bucky’s form and Steve could only lean against the opposite wall and drink in his texture. Steve could hear the DJ mixing the tempo down and the slow pounding felt like a river of warm caramel pouring into their hiding spot and filling the space between them.

Steve couldn't help it. He just wanted. It was primal. The music dropped to a slow groove and he listened as the DJ slowly faded in a remix of ‘Pillowtalk’. The melody was the final key clicking the last hidden lock in Steve’s mind. He pressed his back harder against the red velvet cake to make sure he was still present, and just gazed at Bucky while intently listening to the tumblers clicking in his ears. Steve let the first verse roll over them and neither one of them moved an inch, but somehow it felt like they moved miles. The connection that was confused by the chaos of the party was reestablished and Steve felt the joy of sharing a bowl of Lucky Charms again. He had no concept that this type of connection was even possible, and all he’s doing is looking at his beautiful candy man. The party stopped mattering, in fact it just disappeared entirely, leaving only two red velvet walls supporting their weight and the electricity buzzing across the liquid space between them.

The music started to build towards the chorus and Steve watched, enthralled as Bucky shifted his ass away from the wall, pressed his strong shoulders back to ground himself, and started a slow roll of his hips. His movements were barely perceptible in the low light but they were like a magnet for Steve, each subtle shift of his pelvis making it harder to resist. As the chorus swelled Steve couldn’t stop himself, he didn't want to, and he allowed Bucky's gravity to tug him across that caramel hallway in slow motion. Why had he waited so long to do this? He could have been touching his skin an hour ago! So beautiful. Steve slipped his fingers through Bucky's belt loops, pulling downward on them just enough to expose a sliver of those mesmerizingly sharp hip bones and a tantalizing hint of hair and Steve couldn’t do anything but look. To simply reduce his mind to the sense of sight and watch as Bucky continued the slow, pulsing roll of his hips, pushing the growing erection in his pants towards the matching one in Steve's.

The song slowed again and Steve still had a tight hold on Bucky’s belt loops, holding on for dear life, because there was no coming back from this. Once he allowed himself to fall freely into this beautiful anomaly this is who he will become. Steve looked one more time, slow and languid, head to toe, and decided with absolute certainty that he wanted to jump in with both feet.

When the chorus swelled for a final time, Steve almost growled. With a forceful motion he pressed Bucky's hips back against the wall and crowded into his space, a sudden movement followed by a pregnant pause. Bucky looked up and started breathing in quick little pants and Steve waited, pressing his face towards the tiny candies strung around Bucky's neck and breathing him in. He felt Bucky’s hands moving up his sides, tracing the lines of his pecs and then finally returning to his own neck. He bent down to catch Steve’s lips and he could feel the smile in them. Bucky grabbed one of the candy strings off his neck, the elastic catching on their tongues as he flipped it over onto Steve’s. Then they started moving together; a private dance in a crowded room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you SO MUCH for your comment and kudos! They make me so damn happy! Here's Chapter 7's 'Pop Culture List of Awesomeness so you know what the hell I'm talking about': Movies: Beetlejuice-young Winona Ryder in a hilarious ghost story, Tony is referencing the scene where people at a dinner party get manipulated like puppets into singing and dancing. Also the stolen purses like is about poor Winona getting busted for shop lifting.*Pretty in Pink-continuing my 80's John Hughes obsession, great teen movie and Bucky makes a great Molly Ringwald.*Carrie-horror movie where a telepathic teen gets lured to the prom by the popular kids as a joke & they drop buckets of pig blood on her.*24 Hour Party People-documentary about raves.*Go!-cool movie about trying to get to a rave and the chaos that happens.*Pineapple Express-Seth Rogan weed celebration.*The Matrix-if you haven't seen this movie go right now and watch it. Keanu Reeves at his finest.*Aristocats-Disney fluff about posh cats and a street smart tomcat. Totally Steve & Bucky.*Pricilla Queen of the Desert-colorful celebration of drag queens.*LOTR-Sam Wilson is totally to Steve Rogers as Samwise Gamgee is to Frodo.*The Sixth Sense-Man I still love this movie. After the second viewing I really appreciated the use of symbolic red in the film.*Mommy Dearest-horrible film about child abuse that for some reason I loved as a kid.*Fight Club-one of my favorite movies of all time. The brutality combined with the genius of the concept is wow. And Brad Pitt smashed my baby Jared Leto's face which was SO NOT OK!***TV:Who's the Boss with Tony Danza was a 90's sitcom with Alyssa Milano that I was really into. Maybe I was just into Alyssa?*Freaks and Geeks is one of the most underrated shows ever and it was cancelled far too soon. Perfect look at real High School life.*Deep thoughts with Jack Handy, one of my favorite Saturday Night Live sketches.*I love Alec and Magnus from Shadowhunters and that wedding interrupting kiss gave me life.*Carl Sagan's Cosmos is a series about space that is brilliant & eye opening.***Music:Let's talk Radiohead. They're my favorite band & the story about the concert is something that happened to me. I actually made a huge painting of myself as the astronaut with my stupid ex-husband and my children and my mom and the members of my band floating around me. Real story right there & the new Radiohead album kicks ass. Thom Yorke has my favorite rock voice ever.*These are some of my favorite EDM artists from the 90's to now.-Flume, The Chemical Brothers, Daft Punk, Prodigy, The Crystal Method, Lords of Acid, Deadmaus.*Steven Adler was the original drummer for Guns N Roses who got kicked out for his drug addiction.*Rihanna's 'Shine Bright like a Diamond', I found it really funny imagining Tony singing that.*DJ Godfather is a real DJ in Detroit, Billy Idol's 'Rebel Yell' is impossible to sit silently and listen to. Try it, I dare you.*Same thing for Ginuwine's 'Pony", you WILL dance.*Michael Jackson's 'Beat it' video is so 80's and so cool. Picturing the boys rumbling in leather made me cry a little because I was laughing so hard.*There's more music but its too much so if you have ?'s shoot me a comment.*Other-Prefontaine was a young runner who shocked everyone with his natural ability, Harvey Milk was the first openly gay person to be elected to public office in California. He was assassinated in 1978. There's an excellent film 'Milk" that I highly recommend.*The line about Mike Pence is my political stance bleeding through. As a queer person in 2016 I'm devastated by what's happening.*On that note: Tony's homophobia will have a root, and his use of celebrity names as a way to mock Bucky will have a point. Every time I include a openly gay celebrity I am celebrating their bravery for living their lives openly.* TRIVIA: first to comment the answer gets a giant banana split! 1. What is the 'red rover red rover' like referencing in the MCU? 2. What is the DJ AM mention referencing in the MCU? Visit me on Tumblr as lucidnancyboy and Instagram at jessielucidart. HUGS!


	8. The Motion of Jellyfish

                                                        

 

“Peggy, I need your help.” Sam, looking rather panicked, appeared out of nowhere and loudly whispered in her ear. Now, truth be told, she was perfectly content reclining on this gorgeous vintage couch and enjoying her perfectly shaken cocktail with all these tasty little artisan cherries. They were such delectable little treats, so whatever emergency Sam Wilson needed her to help him with had better be something good!

She supposed she didn’t move quick enough for him because he promptly, and very rudely, tugged her off the couch, “Well Sam, I never…”

“C’mon, no time to explain.” He shifted his position to grab her by the hand and dragged her through the horde of sweaty heathens writing on the dance floor towards god knows what.

Once they cleared the mob Sam made a bee-line towards a dark alcove in the back corner of the basement where she could very plainly make out the shape of Steve Rogers’ back. She would know those broad shoulders and that tiny waist anywhere! Whatever joke Sam was trying to play by dragging her away from her perfect couch and her perfect drink was certainly not funny in her book!

“No way Sam! What are you trying to pull here?” She tried to tug her hand away but Sam was relentless.

“C’mon Peggy, please.”

As they got closer she could tell that Steve was most definitely kissing someone and was pressing her up against the wall, but there were far too many bodies in the way for Peggy to see who it was. Oh wonderful, he dumps poor Sharon on Saturday and seven days later he’s snogging some random in the corner of Stark’s basement! Unbelievable!

“Sam, I have no interest in…” Sam yanked her right in front of the entrance to the alcove, effectively blocking anyone from seeing what Steve was up to and… “Oh. Oh my.”

“Can you just stand here please? They’re too stupid to realize they’re in plain view and I don’t feel comfortable interrupting.” Sam looked very uncomfortable. As well he should!

Steven Rogers was properly snogging Bucky Barnes right up against the wall. It was not a little kiss nor would it qualify as heavy petting. He was basically fucking that poor boy right through his ridiculous clothes and she looked directly at Sam and just laughed, and laughed, and laughed some more.

“I couldn’t find anyone else,” he said squaring his broad shoulders as some nosy partygoer tried to look past him. At least Sam had the decency to look guilty for dragging her into this situation. “I’m sorry Peg.”

She stood on her tiptoes to try to make a better screen and rolled her eyes, because good god, what else could she do in this situation? “Well Sam, this certainly isn’t ideal, but let’s be honest,” she took another look at Steve rolling his hips against Bucky Barnes’ crotch while he pulled the poor boy’s hair backwards and licked up the expanse of his neck, “it certainly explains a lot, now doesn't it?”

Sam just shook his head and rubbed his hand across his eyes, and laughed, because it was obvious he knew she was right. She was always right! Standing here was ridiculous enough but then Steve slid his hand underneath the waistband of that boy’s silly pants and she’d had about enough! Turning around, she marched right up behind him and scolded, “Steven Grant Rogers, at least have the decency to take this scene somewhere private!”

Steve promptly released Bucky Barnes’ neck from where he was latched onto it like a lamprey and swung his head around. She rather enjoyed how embarrassed he looked when he saw her, but Bucky Barnes had the audacity to just smugly lean his head back against the wall and chuckle. Well, she would tuck that reaction in her back pocket for later. The nerve!

Steve’s face, on the other hand, was so red that he actually looked purple. For a fleeting moment she thought perhaps she should feel bad for interrupting... but the reality was she didn’t feel bad in the slightest. Friends always help friends, even when they come out of the closet in spectacularly inappropriate ways.

*****

 

Steve was a little bit tipsy and maybe a tiny bit high, but not sloppy. He was very much aware  that he had Bucky Barnes spread out before him on the bed in one of Tony’s infamous fourth floor guest rooms. And Bucky was a little bit tipsy, but not sloppy, and he was lying on his back with his hands folded up behind his head and one long leg bent up at the knee. The only light was from the ornate bedside lamp which was casting a soft yellow glow across Bucky’s strong features. He was looking at Steve...just looking...and smiling that seductive little grin that Steve was very quickly learning was his drug of choice. Bucky rocked his knee in and out which caused the long black straps on his unbelievable pants to swing in slow arcs. The way they dangled from one leg to the other reminded Steve of a giant criss-crossing web. Delicate architecture magically erected overnight, and Steve imagined purposely getting trapped to simply experience the long silken threads wrapping him tightly in their cocoon.

He stood at the foot of the plush bed that had far too many red and gold decorative pillows, and didn’t know what to do. He knew what he  _ wanted _ to do, but he didn’t know if that’s what he  _ should _ do. Was this too fast? God, yes it was way too fast! Much much much too fast! The last time he’d been in this situation things had gone very very badly; so completely and totally wrong. But that night with Peggy was something else; something he was expected to do, and felt pressured to do, and it felt nothing like this. The black webs continued swinging in their entrancing rhythm and Steve felt his breath quickening.

Even though he’d been dating Peggy for months and he really liked her, he didn’t feel this pull, this tugging. Plus, there was the very real fact that she definitely didn’t look anything like this, because...deep breath. Deep breath...she was different. This was different. Bucky was different. Steve’s hard dick pressing uncomfortably against his hip inside his jeans told him with absolute certainty that this was different. But they were both a little bit tipsy, and he was maybe a tiny bit high and....

“Stevie, I can see you thinking.” The lilt of Bucky’s voice was so casual. How could he be so casual? Was this just casual? It didn’t feel casual… “Steve?”

“I don’t know what to do.”

“Ha, what?” Bucky laughed and dropped his knee flush with the bed so his enticing web was pulled taut. “Well, that was some brutal honesty right there. I mean, I know I’m a  _ guy _ and that’s probably really fucking weird for you right now, but it’s basically the same concept as a girl Stevie.”

Oh fuck. That’s all he could think as Bucky threw another whimsical smile his direction. Oh fuck. Oh fuck....“I’ve um, that’s just, oh jesus.” Steve licked his lips and he was most definitely breathing too fast. Deep breath in, hold...hold it. Bucky propped himself up on his elbows and cocked his head to the side, his black eyeliner was artfully smudged even further under his eyes and the three candy necklaces were still tightly wrapped around his long neck just waiting to be eaten. “Jesus.”

“Steve, hey. Hey are you okay?” Bucky’s expression quickly shifted to concern, little wrinkles appearing on his forehead, “Hey, c’mon, it’s cool. We can go back downstairs if you want.”

That reaction, right there, let Steve suck in a breath and actually hold it in. Ten seconds... Breathe it out slowly. It told him that he wasn’t just lost in a candy colored cloud of lust formed by adrenalin, smudged eyeliner, and undulating hips. Yes, he was a little bit tipsy and maybe a tiny bit high, but the look on Bucky’s face was the same one that materialized under the Brooklyn street lamps when he first rested his hand on Steve’s thigh; that mystical moment when he first revealed the kind, fuzzy muppet and wrapped Steve up in his cozy brown fur. It was the same look that Bucky had on his face when he was carefully sticking far too many butterfly bandaids to the gaping cut on his forehead; his tongue sticking out just a tiny bit as he concentrated on pulling the two jagged edges of Steve’s skin back together so they could start the difficult process of healing. It was the same look Bucky had given him when Steve leaned over his nude form and showed him the drawing; wide eyes colored with both awe and concern because Bucky understood the gravity of hiding his gift. The way Bucky was looking at him now, with concern and sadness told Steve there was so much more underneath all the candy. The riptide wasn’t created by the devilish looks and the seductive smiles; there was something far more meaningful below the surface that was sucking Steve into its current.

“Steve,” Bucky said as he started to sit up, “it’s been a crazy few days. I get it. Lets just…”

“No.” He took a step closer to the bed. “No, I want to be here!” Steve didn’t want to go back downstairs at all; not one bit! He didn’t want to see the hordes of people and he didn’t want to deal with any of their shit. “No, I want to be right here Bucky, I just, this is really fast, and we’ve been drinking and I might be sorta a tiny bit high, and I don’t want to do anything…”

“That you’ll regret.” Bucky fell heavily back to the bed, making himself completely flat, and let out a sardonic laugh. The web collapsed and he put his hands over his face. “Of course”.

“God no!” Steve lurched forward and knelt on the end of the bed before reaching out to grab the ankle of Bucky’s bright blue boot. “No Bucky, that’s not at all what I meant. Not at all! No, I mean I don’t want to screw this up.”

Bucky peeked out from under his arm, the numerous neon bracelets emitting a subtle pink and orange glow across his features. “How could you screw this up? You figured out how to suck my dick pretty easily, I think you…”

“I’m a virgin.”

Silence. Holy shit, the silence was deafening and now he looked like an idiot. Idiot. In his peripheral vision he could see Bucky pulling himself completely into a sitting position and Steve felt heavy. He let go of Bucky’s ankle, allowing the colorful leather to slip from his grasp, but Bucky’s hand caught his fingers before he could pull away completely.

“Hey Steve, it’s ok,” Bucky breathed out the last bit of cockiness and the silence gave way to something personal; something real. The air in the room lifted and it suddenly felt like there was no space between them. Like the molecules had been pressed tightly to the ceiling when Bucky let out that last breath. Steve thought about the perfect stillness of their space helmet and Bucky whispered, “so am I.”

Steve suddenly felt a lot more sober and a lot more...oh wow. Was he serious? No way he was serious! “Bucky, but, um,” he let his fingers return to the beat up blue leather and payed special attention to the texture of the wrinkles. “Wow. Um, you seemed like you really knew what you were,” he laughed awkwardly, “um, like you knew what you were doing the other night.”

Bucky laughed out loud, a big cackling sound, and curled in on himself with the force of it which make the bed bounce. “Oh, man. Thanks?” He bit his lip and chuckled before he said, “yeah, so about that...um, Truth or Dare time. I’m gonna have to pick truth.” He scrunched up his face, his nose adorably getting squished by his upper lip. “So Clint and I, maybe used to practice on one another, like totally platonic, just friends, you know bros being bros…sucking each other’s dicks.” Bucky actually blushed. It was the first time Steve had seen his cheeks turn pink and he thought about strawberry bubblegum. Bucky looked vulnerable, making Steve wonder what drove him to put on that convincing sexual facade in the first place.

“Oh, huh. Well that’s...um, unexpected.” Steve wanted to laugh, or cry. His perception had been so wrong. God this was too fast, like all he knew was the crunchy outer shell of Bucky’s horny green M&M. He thought Bucky was experienced; definitely not a virgin. The seductive looks, and the confidence, and the way he moved his body and the way he kissed and the way he used his mouth. God his mouth.

“You thought I was a slut,” Bucky laughed and pushed the camouflage visor off his head.

“No I didn’t, I just thought,” he swallowed, “No I just…”

“It’s ok Steve, I thought you were a slut too.”

Bucky flashed him that toothy sunshine smile and Steve suddenly knew what to do. Yes, it was too fast, he wasn’t an idiot, but this funny beautiful boy with the sunshine smile wasn’t something fleeting. This wasn’t a whim or an experiment. “Bucky, I want you to know how much the last week has meant to me.”

“Steve…”

An uncomfortable shadow crossed Bucky’s face, but Steve needed him to know the truth, so he just rolled right past his protest. “I want you to know how much you’ve taught me about myself in just a few short days. It’s crazy but true.” Steve let his hand slide up Bucky’s calf and gripped him behind his knee. “And Bucky, I don’t know what it is about you, but every part of me is screaming that I want to  _ know _ you. I want to discover what’s underneath. I don’t  _ want _ this to be slutty. I don’t  _ want _ to touch you with that type of intent.”

Bucky looked like he was going to cry. “I’m sorry, I just…”

Steve let his hand slide out onto the lowest black silk thread, trying to moor him. “No, no. Don’t be sorry.”

“No, you’re absolutely right, I’m a fucking slut. You must think I’ll just fuck the first guy who wants me. But history is repeating itself Steve, nobody fucking wants me even when I just bend over and beg for it. What the fuck was I thinking?” He quickly shuffled back on the bed, pulling the strap from Steve’s grasp. His heels pressed deep wrinkles into the comforter as he rammed himself against the headboard and shoved all of the red and gold pillows to the ground. Steve watched in horror as he banged his head three times against the wood, his doors slamming shut when Steve only wanted to open them.

“Jesus Bucky, no! Stop.” Steve rushed onto the bed and folded his legs indian style right in front of him. His calves pressed against Bucky’s blue boots and they were right back where they started, four stories up on that cold parking garage roof. Steve saw a black raven land on the left side of the headboard but this time it wasn’t here for him. It was here for the boy sitting across from him; a deja vu in reverse. Instead of warm rivers of crimson blood creating paths down Steve’s face, Bucky was bleeding colorful trails of sugar, the coating melting away to reveal a dark gooey center. He looked embarrassed. He looked raw. Steve wanted to make him understand.

“Look at me Bucky.” The tears in his eyes were threatening to spill over the kohl smudged rims, only holding on by the science of surface tension. Steve reached out his hand to tip up Bucky’s chin, “Look at me.”

The light reflected off his tears making Bucky look otherworldy and his jaw was set in a rigid line. Steve knew he was a little too tipsy and a maybe a tiny bit too high for this kind of speech, but he  _ had _ to say it. Looking directly into those alien eyes he began, “Bucky, I want you to know that I’m starting to see you, just like I  _ know _ you can see me. Not just the surface, but whatever secrets we both have hidden underneath. I don’t know what it is about you that makes me want to show you everything, to tell you the secrets that no one else knows, but it’s a real thing and I don’t want it to stop.” Steve wrapped his right hand tightly around the back of Bucky’s neck, feeling the sudden need to ground him because he looked so overwhelmed. “But I want  _ you _ to do the same with me. I want to know everything about you and I don’t want you to feel like I need anything except what’s underneath. I can sense that it’s beautiful Bucky, even if it’s not perfect. Did you know that the most beautiful things in this world are the objects with imperfections; the unique, the rare, the flawed? I don’t want you to think I’m just using you, or that you’re just an experiment, or that this is just lust, because it’s not. But Bucky, I need to know that’s where  _ you _ are too or we have to stop.” God Steve prayed, please. “Do you feel it too baby? Something more?”

Then the tears did spill over, and Steve caught them on his thumbs because that was his role. It was his job to open the floodgates and be there to catch every drop. Thank god Bucky nodded and just let them leak out. Quietly he said, “I feel it.”

He pressed Bucky’s exposed face between his palms and pulled their foreheads together. “This isn’t just sex?”

Bucky’s breath shuddered as he whispered, “no, Steve,” and the shell was gone. “Can you, can you… can you please hold me?”

Relief flooded over him in giant rolling waves. “Of course I can, come here.” Steve opened his arms and Bucky clambered onto his lap, trying desperately to wrap his legs tightly around Steve’s back.

“Oh fuck, the straps,” Bucky cried and laughed at the same time. The black web was blocking his forward motion, catching Steve across the belly with tense strings. Steve smiled before reaching down to unclip them one by one, removing any barrier, and pulled Bucky into him. They just sat there, intertwined and let themselves blend.

Even holding him so close, with no web to lure or trap, Steve had to be absolutely sure so he said, “Play a game with me?”, and felt the whole of Bucky’s body laugh.

“Stealing my tricks already, huh? Sure, why not? Let’s play a game.”

“Tell me something about you I don’t know.” Steve ran his hands around Bucky’s back and allowed them to slide under the hem of his tank top to grip the meat of his lower back firmly. How could someone be both solid and soft? “Tell me something real.”

Bucky pulled his head off Steve’s shoulder and let his eyes drift to the left. His face was a disaster; a dripping mess of black and green and tears and hair stuck to it all, but it was clean. Steve cupped his angular face between his palms and slowly rubbed his thumbs along Bucky’s sharp cheekbones, smearing what remained of the six green dots that were painted there. He was fascinated as the lime green paint spread onto his fingertips, mixing with the running black and the moisture from his tears, and he got lost in the trails they created as they expanded their edges. He pulled the bottom circles down to the little dimple in Bucky’s chin and then let his lips follow the path he’d created. He was lost in a childhood memory of finger painting, tucked in the cozy corner of his mother’s kitchen, tugging pigment haphazardly just for the joy of the action. Pulling the color across Bucky’s cheeks Steve fell into that same simple joy. He kissed each painted cheek, then softly kissed his lips.

Bucky took a deep breath and said, “I’ve had a crush on you for over three years, and I hated you for it. I hated that you stood by and let your friends treat me like trash, and that you just walked around like some untouchable stuck-up golden god. I hated that I still let myself fucking like you. Fuck, I hated  _ myself _ for not being able to stop.”

Steve slid his hands higher up his firm back muscles and let that soak in. He could feel the chocolate melting beneath his fingertips, and he imagined the the green finger paint blending with horny green M&Ms. Three years. Three years. Steve pressed a kiss to his temple, catching a few hairs under his lips. “Tell me something else Bucky.”

Beneath his palms Steve felt the pause in Bucky’s chest; the decision making process preparing to unlock the next secret. Steve smoothed his hands up over his shoulder blades and like he’d magically turned the key, he felt Bucky’s shoulder muscles relax across his back.

“I remember my real parents. I wasn’t a baby like Natasha when I was abandoned at that fucking orphanage. I was six years old. Six! I remember my mother had wavy brown hair just like mine and I can still hear her voice singing Russian lullabies to me in my dreams. My father had this dimple in his chin,” Bucky reached up and flicked it like it was a scar, “and they waved at me when they drove away, and I still don’t know why the hell they left. I’m always waiting for the other goddamn shoe to drop because I remember  _ loving _ them Steve, and they still didn’t want me.”

Steve grabbed onto the fabric of the black tank top and reverently lifted it up over Bucky’s head before using it to carefully wipe the smudges and tears off his face. He watched him appear, with nowhere left to hide. Steve reached down and took one of his hands, carefully pulling off two orange glowing bracelets, followed by a pink, then a green, three more orange, and two yellow. He tossed them haphazardly onto the bed around them, then rubbed his hand purposefully up and down Bucky’s empty arm. “Tell me something else.”

His word were coming quicker, tumblers falling into place. “I’ve been so fucking afraid that I’d never find anyone who understands me the way Clint does. Someone who’s actually gay.”

Steve felt the palpable fear in that revelation and he grasped Bucky’s other arm, pulling off four pink circles, one yellow, two green, another three pink, and a brilliantly glowing orange. He let his fingers trace up the raised veins snaking under the bare skin and he understood. It wasn’t a question when he said, “you love him.”

Bucky swallowed and Steve could tell that Bucky had never admitted this to anyone. He sniffled and closed his eyes before just letting it pour out. “Yeah, I do. I love him and he loves me, but it’s not like that, and it’s ok. It really is. But Steve, you make me feel like, like I was wrong. I was wrong that I’d never find anyone.”

Steve smiled and carded Bucky’s hair back with his hands, gathering it and quickly twisting it into a loose braid. “I know for a fact that you were wrong.” Steve slid his hands down to the candy necklaces and carefully lifted off two. He decided to leave one behind, and to keep the one Bucky placed on his neck too, because even laid bare Bucky was still candy. He would always be candy. “I see you Buck and I want to understand all of you.”

Steve looked at Bucky, his face wiped clean, and he wasn’t nervous anymore. The swarm of glowing bracelets floated around them like a bloom of hypnotic jellyfish caught in a circular current and Steve felt alive. He leaned forward and took the last candy necklace between his teeth and pulled. Bucky rocked his hips up against Steve’s body and he could feel the honesty in the motion. It was completely different than when he danced for him in his messy bedroom, it was completely different than the slow grind of the basement, and Steve could feel him starting to get hard. The fact that he did that to Bucky’s body made him feel so powerful and so certain. The sugary beads started melting in his mouth and he chomped down, biting several off and letting the elastic string snap back down tightly on Bucky’s neck.

Then he kissed him, with tiny pieces of candy still clinging to his tongue, and squeezed his entire body against Bucky’s. He’d never felt anything like the waves of connection that poured between them at that moment. He felt the frenzy of it; Bucky trying to catch his heels on the bed to give him leverage to pull his body towards Steve and the frenzy of his wet tongue sliding into Steve’s mouth. He felt he frenzy of Bucky’s hands sliding under his shirt and running up and down his vertebra. He crunched off more pieces of pastel candy leaving the elastic half empty.

“Bucky, baby,” he whispered into his ear, “are you sure?”

Bucky’s feet stopped scrambling and his fingers held their ground but didn’t move. Steve leaned back enough to watch him blink his eyes slowly and take a deep breath. “Yeah, Steve. Please. I’m sure.”

“OK, but I want to do this right.”

“Is there a wrong way?” Bucky chuckled and bit his lower lip. The flesh squeezed under his slightly crooked teeth and it was so charming. Everything about him was so charming; and strong. Steve understood that now; the underlying strength. Unleashing that punch on Brock’s stupid face had sparked the need to cherish; to protect; to adore. Not because Bucky needed any of those things, but because he deserved them.

“I want to appreciate you, ok? Do you trust me?” He released Bucky’s wild hair from his temporary braid and tucked it behind his ears. The way the tendrils caught on his green fingertips made Steve smile. The divide was collapsing; the monochromatic walls tumbling inward as Bucky’s vines overtook him with their shades of green.

Bucky nuzzled his cheek into Steve’s palm and said, “yes.”

“Yes?”

“Yes I trust you.”

Steve was definitely still a little bit tipsy and a maybe still a tiny bit high, and he could tell by the subtle laziness in Bucky’s expressions that he was definitely still a little bit tipsy, but there was no distortion in that declaration of trust. It took Steve’s breath away.

Untangling his fingertips without allowing himself to lose the tendrils’ lasting impact, Steve gently pushed Bucky off his lap and flat against the comforter. He scooched backwards until he could pull Bucky’s feet into his lap and smiled, feeling pure wonder, before he started carefully untying the checkered laces on Bucky’s electric blue boots. He imagined Bucky picking out the loud pattern from a wall covered with laces in solid colors and Steve appreciated the whimsical taste of a mind inspired to grab the boldest choice. The artist inside Steve was delighted as he slid his fingers underneath each loop, pulling the strings out just enough to slide them off Bucky’s feet and carefully set them next to the bed. The worn in leather, the chipped paint of the red anarchy sign, and those checkered laces were a treasure to be treated with respect. Art in their own right.

Bucky’s eyes were wide as Steve tugged off his socks and applied gentle pressure to the soles of each foot. Steve had never touched anyone like this, but there was something innate driving him make each action slow, intentional and meaningful; like some sort of primal instinct was directing each motion. He noted that Bucky’s second toes were longer than his big toes which Steve knew was called ‘Greek foot’, an idealized standard of beauty used in Roman and Renaissance painting and sculpture. Steve lifted each foot to kiss the protruding digits and imagined he was kissing Michaelangelo’s ‘David’.

“Stevie, you like my feet?” Bucky was leaning up on his elbows and he  _ was _ that idealized statue come to life. Every piece carved lovingly out of the perfect block of marble leaving something to be cherished. “I mean I’ve been dancing all night and my boots aren’t exactly April fresh, so…”

“I like your feet.”

“I know they smell,” he said matter-of-factly and shook his head. “There’s more to me than my stinky feet you know…”

“You’re saying you want me to touch more of you? Is that what you’re saying?” Steve reached over his shoulder to pull his white polo over his head, tossing it somewhere before crawling up to kneel over Bucky’s body. Seeing him underneath him, full of trust was so intoxicating and Steve felt drunk in a way that had nothing to do with the alcohol in his blood. Bucky reached his hands up towards Steve’s neck but without thinking he intercepted them, grabbing his naked wrists firmly. Wow, why did he do that? He had no clue, but he very clearly heard Bucky’s breath catch and watched his eyes roll up towards the ceiling so he didn’t let go. He didn’t want to ever let go.

Hovering just above Bucky’s face, he whispered, “I’d like you to keep these here,” and gave a slight push to his wrists. “Can you do that for me?”

Bucky looked amazed and oddly a tiny bit high, but he slowly nodded so Steve released his grip. They didn’t move, not a centimeter, which was a thing of beauty and Steve felt himself getting impossibly harder.

“You’re so beautiful.” Steve shuddered and let his fingers run through the little hairs on Bucky’s chest and down to the trail that led down from his navel. He traced the spaces between each rib, imagining the chisel carefully forming each one. His gaze followed the connection of Bucky’s chest muscles to his powerful shoulders and noted how the sinews pressed upwards through his skin. Steve was addicted. Leaning down to kiss him there were no more strings, no questions, just the feeling of his bare bruised chest pressing roughly against those muscles. He reached up and grabbed Bucky’s left hand, pulling it up to his own shoulder and set them both free. Bucky’s hands wandered into his hair, then to his neck, and then they were everywhere. Steve felt a jolt of electricity as Bucky’s fingers skipped across his ass.

More, he wanted more. Steve rolled to the side before reaching down to Bucky’s belt. He tucked his fingers under the waistband and looked one more time into Bucky’s eyes to confirm that this wasn’t too much. He needed that reassurance for the both of them.

“Steve, please. I want to.” Bucky pushed the silver buckle into Steve’s hand with a gentle upward roll of his hips, “I want you to.”

So he took a deep breath and carefully undid the final lock, undressing Bucky completely except for the half eaten candy string. The first night was intense but what Steve was about to do was on another level entirely. Thursday, covered in tiny bats and scary bunnies, Bucky touched Steve in a traumatic haze of pain and relief, then Steve had taken care of him with gratitude and blind desire. But they weren’t completely naked together. They weren’t emotionally naked together. They didn’t know what they were starting, or that they would end up here. They hadn’t touched the whole of their bodies together. They hadn’t known. Steve was suddenly so grateful that he couldn’t have sex with Peggy, or Sharon, because that wasn’t what sex was supposed to be. He knew that now. For  _ him _ or for  _ them _ .  _ This _ was what sex was supposed to be.

Every image flashed across his mind at once. He was Max surrounded by lush jungle and floating embers, he was cliff diving into an unknown current from one-hundred feet, he was swimming in a river of warm caramel and chewing on glowing green gumdrops, he was lifting the jeweled crown off the head of the misfit king, he was listening to the music of the Brooklyn bridge on his way to a better place, and he saw it all as he looked at Bucky. He was stunning.

Steve stepped backwards off the bed to slide his own dark jeans to the floor and there was a still moment where they were both completely themselves; without costumes or facades, without symbols or barriers, just one brain admiring the skin that covered the mind of the other. Two brains that were inexplicably drawn to one another and wanted to express it through physicality. When he climbed back on top of Bucky, their bodies pressed wholey together for the first time, every nerve lighting up with the contact from his lips to his toes, he knew without a doubt that he was falling in love.

“Front pocket of my pants,” Bucky mumbled as he let his hand drift down to touch Steve’s cock. Steve was confused, and distracted by the hand on his dick, but he wasn’t going to argue, so he regretfully rolled away and reached over the end of the bed to grab Bucky’s pants by one of the dangling black straps. He had a quick image of unbuckling the other side of that thin strap from its curved metal hook and seeing how it would look wrapped around Bucky’s wrists. Woah. woah...  wow, ok, pocket. Front pocket. Focus. Focus. He reached his fingers in and pulled out...what the hell is this? Climbing off the bed to get a closer look under the light of the lamp he squinted his eyes to read the little label. Lube. Watermelon flavored lube? Oh. Well. Things just got very very very real.

“Steve, it’s ok, come back.” Bucky sounded mildly amused, maybe slightly concerned.

“Buck…”

“I’ll walk you through it. Porn and I are very good friends and I’m maybe extremely well versed in sticking fingers in my ass.” He laughed and said, “c’mere, I wanna feel you again.”

“Um, did you bring a condom too?” Oh jesus, he was freaking out. Every torturous moment of Sex Ed class was running through his mind like a checklist.

“Uhhhhh, nooooooo….I didn’t even bring the lube to be honest, Clint slipped it to me after you punched Brock. Guess he thought we might need it,  _ and _ that Watermelon was a good choice because he thinks he’s a fucking comedienne. He’s a good friend like that,” Bucky laughed and it was so comfortable, so open, “He didn’t give me a condom. I’m assuming he thought you’d have one, ‘cause honestly we  _ both _ thought you were a slut.” He kicked his foot out and hit Steve’s thigh, “you do have one right?”

“I don’t.” He was an idiot. A totally unprepared stupid dumb complete screw up idiot.

Bucky looked amused, “You don’t?”

“Because I’m not a slut!” Steve didn’t know what to do so he just stood there totally naked holding a packet of watermelon flavored lube.

Bucky fell back flat on the bed, every bit of him on full display. “Well this is going against every safe sex lecture we’ve ever gotten.”

“What do we do?” Steve wanted to cry. Stupid, unprepared, stupid, stupid stupid.

“I’m clean. It’s just been Clint and he’d only been with me at that point, so...”

“What?” Steve couldn’t believe what he was hearing.

“I’m clean. What about you?” Bucky looked suddenly very serious.

Even though Steve knew they were both still a little bit tipsy and he was maybe still a tiny bit high, the reality was they were having a very high-level, completely unsafe ‘safe sex’ talk and that was no joke. Real analysis required. His mind was running so fast, but he managed to get out, “Um, I am too. Peggy and Sharon were both virgins when I was dating them and it was just oral, so…”

“So?” Bucky raised his eyebrows.

“So?” Steve still stood there stupidly holding lube. What the hell does he even do with this!?

Reaching out his long arms Bucky said, “so... stop looking like that lube is gonna kill you and c’mere Steve. Just come here.”

So he did. He just did. And wherever ‘here’ was, it was a place he never wanted to leave. Steve memorized every piece of Bucky’s glorious body as he learned how to touch him and stretch him and make him feel good, and when he tucked Bucky’s knees back so he could slowly push into him for the first time, he couldn’t stop staring at his face. Watching how his body affected Bucky’s breathing, and altered his expression, and controlled the bend of his back...fuck. He felt like he was flying. He was living in a reality where he actually just slid himself inside Bucky Barnes and Bucky Barnes wanted him to! Steve leaned forward and kissed those beautiful lips and licked the tiny tears that were trickling out the sides of his racoon eyes. “Baby, are you ok? Am I hurting you?”

Bucky shook his head, a tiny moan escaping his lips as he reached his hands down to grab Steve’s ass and pull him further into him. “No, I’m good. It’s good, I just feel...a little overwhelmed. I just, Steve…” and Bucky rolled his body upwards so it moved them and oh god he was going to come in two seconds. He couldn’t think so he stopped trying. He just let his body rock into Bucky and it was like they were meant for each other. It wasn’t weird or awkward, they found their rhythm and passion and Steve watched in awe as he made Bucky come and he followed right after.

He leaned over, still buried inside of Bucky in every way a person could be, and wrapped his arms tight around his shoulders. He didn’t know what to say, how to express what he was feeling with words, so he tried to convey it with the tightness of his arms, the gentle pressure of his hips, and the way he was kissing Bucky’s neck. Steve slid the final necklace over Bucky’s head and kissed the sugar that remained.

“Stevie,” Bucky whispered into his hair.

“Yeah baby?”

Bucky blew out a soft breath, “I like it when you call me that.”

“Well, I like it when you call me Stevie.”

“We just had sex.”

Steve let his nose get tickled by tiny chest hairs, then leaned up to look Bucky in the eye. “We did?”

“Oh my god, Steve, I’m serious, this is a big deal!”

Steve felt sudden manic joy flowing through him and he couldn’t resist, “yeah no kidding, because I just realized my dick is stuck in your ass and I don’t know how it got there!”

Bucky started laughing which had the very unfortunate effect of quickly shoving Steve’s dick  _ out _ of Bucky’s ass and oh Jesus, that’s um...“ummmm, hold on…” Steve ran for the bathroom.

“Oh fuck. Oh my god, Stark is gonna kill us.”

Steve knocked a bunch of monogrammed towels to the floor searching for a washcloth then impatiently waited for the water to warm up while listening to the barrage of swear words pouring out of Bucky’s mouth. He sure did swear a lot! Warm cloth in hand he ran back to the bed to wipe Bucky down and try to salvage the comforter. God, Tony was going to kick his ass if this stained! He would never ever hear the end of it...

“Steve?” Bucky looked very puzzled.

“Yeah?”

The puzzled look gave way to something else, something more bare. “You really take care of me.”

“Huh?” The sudden realization that what he was doing could be perceived as very weird hit him full force and he stopped moving the washcloth up the back of Bucky’s thigh. What the hell was he doing!? He hadn’t even processed his actions, his brain just told him: ‘you just made a mess on Bucky so you need to clean him’. Oh god, that was so weird! “Oh I’m…”

“I think I like it.” Bucky looked as shocked as Steve felt.

“Really?”

“I mean yeah, it’s totally weird. You’re actually wiping come off my dick and my ass with a warm washcloth, but I’m just gonna roll with it and say mmm-hmm. I weirdly like it. Let’s not over-analyze.”

Steve felt a smile creep onto his face as he finished wiping the warm cloth against Bucky’s skin, mesmerized by the trust. He was laying there, totally naked in every way, and allowing Steve to take care of him. In that opulent bedroom, with the sounds of the party floating up from below, Steve, still a little bit tipsy and a maybe tiny bit high, saw his future, and it was Bucky.

“Bucky, will you go to homecoming with me on Friday?”

Well, that certainly got his attention, because his eyebrows hit his hairline. “Like as your date? Aren’t you on homecoming court?”

“Um, yes?

“Yes you’re on Homecoming court?” Bucky ran his toes over Steve’s ass.

Steve laughed and pushed his toes away. “Hey that tickles! Yes, as my date.”

“Wow,” he put his toes right back. “You know you’re gonna be the fucking king right?” Bucky laughed a beautiful musical sound. “The homecoming king wants to take  _ me _ to the homecoming dance. This should be a real shit storm!”

Steve just grabbed his toes and held them hostage. “Is that a yes?”

“I think you’re bat shit crazy, but yes, it’s a yes,” he said and smiled the sunshine grin and Steve felt so warm. So very warm.

“Buck?”

“Yeah Stevie.”

“Will you be my boyfriend?” Steve held his breath, feeling the Greek toes flexing in his palm, wondering if he could be lucky enough to possess such a priceless treasure as his own.

But there was zero hesitation, his worry snuffed before it could even begin, because Bucky laying bare in front of him said, “absolutely.”

*****

 

“Ohhhh dude they gotta be in one of these rooms, I saw them come up here with my own two super spy eyes, even under these sunglasses, I still saw it. How does Kanye see anything through these?” Tony tried one more time to see through the green plastic slits before giving up and tossing them over the railing. “Fuck you Kanye!” 

“Ouch! What the hell?!” Echoed up from four stories below.

Ha, whoopsie. He used his hands to pull his uncooperative body the rest of the way up the stairs. Gorillas have the right idea, this was so so much much much easier. Bipedal locomotion was bullshit for homosapiens that consumed far too much delicious alcohol. When he finally breached the top step he tumbled right into the elevator door which conveniently dinged to get his attention. Oh damn, his genius brain had failed once again. Why oh why Sir Elevator, why hast thou forsaken me and made me taketh the stairs!?

Sam grabbed the rail for extra help because obviously four flights of stairs were not climbing themselves. He seemed out of breath, or maybe like he was going to throw up in the classical Roman vase he was staring at. He could just add that to the ever expanding list of things the great Howard Stark was going to ream his ass for: First and foremost the giant blood trail leading up the basement stairs, across his mom’s white sitting room rug, and ending with a flourish in the puddle on the antique 1920’s Oriental Rug in the porte d’entree. Thank you Captain Steve for turning Brock’s nose into a bloody fountain that was destined to put a real damper on his parent/child relationship. Tony pictured Rumlow lying on the rug while Frank and Jack had to wait to retrieve their keys from The Keymaster. Ha, poor six of hearts! ‘Hurry up and find our keys before this dick bleeds out!’ He had to give that card a bonus!

Then there was the small fire in the drum and bass room, and the deep grooves in the basement floor from sliding the heavy Victorian table across it, and...oh fuck it. Sam was about to fall backwards down the stairs and he thought maybe he might have to add ‘accidentally killing Sam Wilson’ to the list. Howard would be so proud.

“This right here, Tony, this is a bad bad idea Tony.” Oh good, he didn’t die. “We should not be spying. Not! It’s against the law of bros or something.” Sam’s shoulder hit the elevator door right next to Tony’s ear and it rang out against the metal.

“But I gave you that extra shot so you’d be a British ‘Avenger’ spy with me! I’m the dude, Sherlock, Ralph Finness, whatever, he had a trench coat and an accent, and you’re Uma Thurman in that black cat suit, which is the only redeemable part of that movie by the way. So shut up Sam, and be Uma! Find your inner Uma! Plus, spies don’t bitch this much!” Tony pushed off and started on his very important mission down the long hallway. “Watch my back Uma!”

“Why am I Uma?” Sam followed, weaving from one wall to the other like that scene in ‘Altered States’. That was a great movie. Maybe Tony should build a sensory deprivation tank? Now that ‘Stranger Things’ was a thing it would be all the rage! Mental note: build tank, buy stock in salt, take acid. Tony started slamming back and forth too, as a tribute.

“Cuz Sammy boy, I don’t think I can pull off the cat suit.”

“Ha,” Sam snorted, “you have a duck butt!”

“So do you!” Tony checked door number one, the white room, for signs of fornication. “Anyway fuck you, my duck ass is adorable!”

“Well, at least I gets to be badass with all the swords.” Sam made a slicing motion of some sort that looked B-movie horrible as he slammed back across the hall. “And I do look damn fine in the yellow!”

Super spy Avengers mission continuing; Tony checked door number two, the emerald room, a good choice for pornication, but he heard a very distinct female laugh and that was not in his mission parameters. Pushing off the door he realized Sam was a drunk idiot. “That’s ‘Kill Bill’! That’s ‘Kill Bill’ Uma! That’s the incorrect Uma movie!”

“Shhhhhhhhhh, you’re screaming Tony.” He made the loudest ‘shhhhh’ in the history of loud drunk ‘shhhhhhhhs’.

“Ugh fine, you’re right. It’s a much better Uma movie than the stupid British ‘Avengers’ crap. Who even green-lit that shit? ‘Kill Bill’ it is! C’mon, listen to these doors. I know for a fact that Steve brought that very authentic looking raver with the Charles Manson hair up here and is fucking him right now! And I want proof!”

“Tony,” Sam slurred, “it’s not really our...”

Uma was failing his mission! Uma was a horrible super spy partner! He wanted Dana Scully instead. She was always on point and Tony was definitely ultra sexy like Fox Mulder. Redefining mission parameters: “Scully!” he shouted very surprisingly right into Sam’s face. When did he get so close? “Do you need another shot Scully? Or can you handle this very important X-File?”

“I can handle this mission Uma.” He fell heavily into a door before saying ‘shhhhh’ to himself.

“Nobody is Uma anymore. Keep up!” Tony pressed his ear up against the cobalt room. God, his mom. Who does she think she is? The Queen of England? He started yelling at Sam as he moved on. “One door, two door, red door, blue door. Why do I have so many doors? Does anyone need this many rooms? Like Sam, are you even listening to me?”

“Whats are you even talkin’ about man?” Sam looked very very confused. And also very very drunk. Ha! What a successful party!

“Red door, four door,” Tony smashed his ear against the final option, the red room, and holy moly yes, yes, yes, “Bingo!”

“Shhhhhhhhh,” Sam said far too loudly and stumbled his direction.

Tony stage whispered, “behind door number four I hear…”

Sam pressed his ear to the door too, their faces inches from one another, and they locked super spy alien sex hunting eyes, which grew bigger very quickly.

“Holy shit,” Sam said looking so shocked that Tony thought he was Roger Rabbit about to get hit by a train or something, “I wasn’t expecting to actually hear…”

“Steve just called him baby…I heard it! He said ‘oh baby’.” Tony was also tied to the tracks with bunny ears and a puffy little tail on his duck butt and the train was coming so fucking fast!

“Oh man, that’s a lot of moaning. I can hear the pounding. The pounding! Dude, this is something we shouldn’t be hearing.  _ Not be hearing _ Tony!” Sam did not make a move to remove his ear from the den of gay sin because he was a dirty birdy just like Tony.

Tony dropped his mouth open so fucking wide, maybe tasmanian devil wide. What cartoon opens it mouth the widest when it’s shocked? He was too drunk to remember. Doesn’t matter. It was just impossibly wide because swear to the nonexistent god in heaven he just heard Steve say, ‘God Bucky, you feel so damn good. So damn good.’

Sam’s eyes told him that he heard that shit too.

“Stevie, oh fuck, I’m gonna come. You’re gonna make me come.” Now they didn’t even need their ears against the door for that little gem because Bucky’s voice echoed loud and clear right down the hall.

Tony listened as Bucky came with a shout yelling Steve’s name, and he listened as Steve told him he was ‘so so beautiful’, and then he just kept right on listening as Steve came with a long moan and a choked gasp. He looked right into Sam’s huge eyes and then slowly down to his hard dick. “Sam…”

Their ears were still plastered to the door even though there was silence from the room. Sam must be in shock. “Yeah Tony?”

“Dude, I’m super turned on right now.” Tony shook his chin towards his dick, his face still stuck to the door and his wicked cool Gene Wilder top hat squished precariously.

“What the fuck dude!” Sam jerked up and actually leapt the four feet across his mom’s imported Persian runner, landing completely on other side of the hall.

Tony started stumbling towards him with his traitorous dick. “I have no fucking clue Scully! I have no fucking clue!”

“I gotta get outta here man! Get that thing away from me!” Sam started running back towards the stairs which Tony had to admit was a horribly horrible idea. But the dick fear must have sobered him up a bit because Uma did not fall.

“Sam, don’t leave me behind! I can’t run with this dick! You’re a shitty partner! X-Files would never have had a second season if you were Mulder’s partner! Never leave a man behind!” Tony tried to run but it ended up as an awkward skip since his dick was trapped somewhere between his thigh and his underwear and it hurt. It hurt so bad!

Now Sam was yelling at full volume, approaching the grand staircase at a dangerous rate of speed. Even drunk as fuck with all the blood in his body currently trapped in his dick, he still calculated the point where Scully would need to reduce her speed in order to stop her forward momentum before hitting the top step. Death was imminent, but Sam did not care! Rocketing towards certain death he yelled, “Tony, keep your dick away from me!”

Shockingly Scully defied physics, with obvious alien assistance, and was wildly careening down the curved stairs away from him. Tony took that as a challenge, and took off as fast as his pinched dick would allow.

“It’s got a mind of its own!” Tony shouted after the traitor as he started hobbling down the stairs past the hordes of wasted teenagers. When he hit the third floor landing he started yelling at random people, “What does it mean? What does it all mean!?” and everyone seemed just as confused as his hard cock. He grabbed a shot off a round silver tray as he flew past and slammed it because why not? Man, those bunny girls were smokin’!

He hit the second floor and crashed right into TJ Campbell. “TJ! I’ve always wanted to know. When you hear ‘Fortunate Son’ and Neil yells ‘I ain’t no Senator’s son’ do you think, ‘yes I am! Yes I am Neil!’ I’ve gotta know!”

“Tony, what the hell are you talking about?”

“Neil Young! Senator’s son! How do you not know this!” Tony zeroed in on the almost full blue drink with the thinly sliced strawberries floating around and thought ‘mine’. He snatched it right out of the clueless Senator’s son and took off running, sucking the yummy drinky as he fled the scene of the crime.

“Hey! Tony Stark that was bullshit!” TJ screamed after him but he cared not, because it’s his party and he can steal drinks if he wants to!

Chasing Sam’s retreating form down the spiraling staircase with his unexplained and very painfully pinched erection was the last thing he remembered before waking up with his face buried in the boobs of a much older woman. Lifting his head out of her very ample cleavage Tony burped and tried to register the fact that she was wearing giant orange cat ears and oh yeah, he was pretty sure he hired this woman to illegally bartend his awesome party. Maybe she illegally took care of his dick too? He had no fucking clue.

*****

 

Oh. My. Fucking. God. I. Am. In. So. Much. Fucking. Trouble! Those were the words that raced through Bucky’s pounding head in supersized red letters of doom when he cracked opened his eyes. They cleverly flashed along with the rhythm of his pounding hangover because his brain was an asshole like that. He was well and truly fucked because he was staring at Steve Rogers’ drooling lips for the third fucking morning in a row! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! His dad was gonna kill him. Dead. He was dead! Dig a grave right fucking now and he would just jump right in and save his dad the effort. He rolled over onto his back and tried to focus. Wait…

Wait…

He looked back at Steve Rogers drooling on the very expensive looking gold pillowcase and remembered that he totally got fucked by Steve Rogers last night! He totally lost his virginity to Steve Rogers last night! He looked down and confirmed that yes, he was buck ass naked, and oh yes, Steve Rogers was buck ass naked too! Buck Rogers buck ass fucking naked! Holy shit, holy shit, holy shit!

There were a zillion plastic bracelets stuck to both of them. Jesus, there was totally one stuck to his ass! He started pulling them off, like weird rave leaches, grabbing one off his stomach and carefully plucking two from Steve’s arm and one off his thigh, right below his dick. The dick that he totally got fucked with!

But that was wrong. He let the bracelets he’d collected slip over his fingers and remembered Steve tenderly pulling them off his wrists while asking Bucky to tell him his deepest secrets. He’d never told anyone except Natasha about his real parents, not even Phil, and he hadn’t talked about it since arriving in New York. He hadn’t spoken about it out loud in five fucking years! But he told Steve.

Bucky yanked another bracelet off his shoulder (jesus how many of these things were there?) and added it to the stack. He’d never told anyone about Clint. Fuck, he really never even told Clint, at least not with something normal like words. But the exact moment Clint figured it all out had smashed Bucky like a semi-truck; a giant dose-of-reality semi-truck that basically flattened him like a pancake. Yeah, he  _ actually _ likes Natasha now, but back when the ‘bros being bros sucking dick club’ came to an abrupt screeching halt it was an excuse. Bucky fucking knew it and Clint fucking knew it! Clint’s newfound love for his sister was completely out of the blue and the cupid’s arrow oh so conveniently struck  _ the day after _ Bucky stupidly jumped into his lap  _ after _ the blow job and tried to kiss him.

Rule number one in the official ‘bros being bros sucking dick club’ handbook was: Clint and Bucky never kiss after coming and Bucky completely fucked that one up royally. The correct order of things was:

  1. Eat a lot of delicious gooey pizza from Anthony’s and hang out playing video games or practicing guitar.
  2. Clint would eventually say ‘I’m horny, are you?’
  3. They might kiss for a few minutes before Bucky would blow him and Clint would jerk him off. 
  4. Eat a lot more delicious gooey pizza from Anthony’s and watch a movie snuggled up on Clint’s bed. 



But that final time, Bucky decided it was a fan-fucking-tastic idea to add a few new steps:

  1. They had eaten a lot of delicious gooey pizza from Anthony’s and hung out playing video games and practicing guitar. Good so far.
  2. Clint had said ‘I’m horny, are you?’, which yes actually he was very horny. Still on track.
  3. They kissed for a few minutes. Step three successfully completed. 
  4. Bucky ruined everything.



He honestly has no clue why on that perfectly normal night he’d broken the rules and allowed himself to slide down and tenderly suck on Clint’s neck. Or why he thought it was a grand idea to run his tongue under the links of the heavy silver chain Clint always wore before slowly unbuttoning his rockabilly shirt to bite at his new nipple rings. Even though Bucky’s been running that night over and over through his head for the past six months he couldn’t tell you why he decided that was the night to give Clint the best blow job in the history of the dick sucking club. Clint came so hard down his throat with his hand tangled roughly in Bucky’s hair and everything was instantly different.

Clint slowly untangled his fingers and pulled his hand away from the back of Bucky’s head, staring at him with big eyes. He didn’t smile and say his usual ‘your turn’, he just stared. With Bucky still on his knees, he just leaned back against his beat up old couch; his shirt hanging open and his freshly washed mohawk covering one side of his face. His torn and patched black jeans were tugged down below his ass and his cock was still in Bucky’s hand and he was just looking. And wow, had Bucky massively misinterpreted that look because he’d practically jumped onto Clint’s lap. Actually there was no ‘practically’ about it, he full on lept into his lap, straddling his exposed cock and leaned in to kiss him. But just as his lips brushed against Clint’s he whispered, ‘Bucky stop’, and he actually felt his heart break.

There had been no ‘your turn’ after that, although they still followed the rest of the routine and ate more gooey delicious pizza from Anthony’s and watched ‘Trainspotting’. But there was no cuddling and Bucky knew he’d fucked up: royally stupidly Class-A dumbass fucked up. The next day Clint suddenly liked Natasha, and he never said ‘I’m horny, are you?’ ever again. It had taken a few horrible weeks for them to get back to normal, and Bucky had been so damn relieved when Clint started calling him ‘cupcake’ again, and kissing his cheek, and letting their feet overlap when they watched TV, but it was truly platonic from that moment forward. It was ok, Bucky totally understood. If you’re straight you’re straight and he’d been an idiot for thinking otherwise. He really was rooting for Clint to somehow convince Nat to give him a chance because he thought they would be weirdly good together. But the real truth of the matter is that Clint Barton would always be the first person Bucky loved, and it still hurt. It was a secret he’d never told anyone. But he told Steve.  

Steve mumbled something in his sleep and rolled to his back and Bucky saw three more rings stuck to him; one on his bicep, one on his thigh and another to his ribs. He reached over and carefully pried them off his skin, noticing the round indents they left behind. If Steve didn’t fuck him last night then what the hell did they do? There was definitely a dick in his ass, that was for fucking sure, but he remembered feeling like he was floating, a thick haze overtaking his thoughts as Steve saw right through him. Damn it was embarrassing when Steve totally called him out about using sex in the place of intimacy. How the fuck did a horny eighteen-year-old guy even recognize that Freudian bullshit, let alone give a fuck? He was embarrassed that Steve was so many levels above him in his thinking. He felt like an asshole. But then Steve somehow fixed everything and got him to...dammit, he was such a fucking mess. How did Steve see that? How did he see through Bucky’s layers of bullshit and and still want him?

Bucky felt tears welling up in his eyes and he once again felt like a big giant crybaby. He took the stack of rings and started laying them out in a line along the center of Steve’s body like a game of Operation in reverse; placing them softly on his skin and trying not to hit trigger the irritating buzzer to wake him up. He laid the first circle on Steve’s sternum and remembered Steve telling him how he saw beauty in flaws. God, Bucky had so many fucking flaws! He scoffed, that must be what makes him so goddamn irresistible. He placed the second one very gently on top of Steve’s tiny blond chest hairs and it hovered right above his skin like a funny baby UFO. Steve readjusted his shoulders making the unidentified flying object rock gently and Bucky remembered how he felt when Steve was wiping all the shit off his face; it made Bucky feel so exposed. He  _ needed _ all that shit all over him, like Mel Gibson in Braveheart going into that bloody ass battle. It was his warpaint but Steve had carefully scrubbed it all off.

Great, now he was really crying. He’d look extra super cute when Steve finally woke up. Bucky let the third ring hover a bit above the space between Steve’s ridiculous upper abs. It was like the fucking Grand Canyon between his sixteen-pack, ok eight-pack, but it might as well be sixteen. He let it just touch the skin on either side to form a bridge and he remembered Steve asking him to play a game, to play  _ his _ game, but on a completely different level. Using obvious Jedi mind tricks he got Bucky to admit how much he hated himself for liking Steve all these years when he didn’t like him back; story of his fucking life. Bucky placed a fourth circle around Steve’s belly button and had the urge to stick his finger in there. Why was he such a weirdo? He really really wanted to stick it in there though! He resisted, but barely. Maybe Steve slipped truth serum into his mouth when they were sliding their tongues together and that’s how he got Bucky to admit his deepest fear and his deepest secret in one fell swoop. Bucky placed another plastic circle on the soft hairs just below ring four and realized something profound.

Steve took care of him. Clint had been right there to punch that mother fucking fuckface Brock, because Clint was always going to be there, but Steve punched that mother fucking fuckface too! After the ‘punch heard round the world’ Clint leaned over and whispered in his ear, ‘do you wanna get outta here?’, which Bucky didn’t. He saw Steve standing across that dance floor and he didn’t. He shook his head, then as the music cranked back up told Clint, ‘I love you man. Thanks, for everything, but I wanna stay’. Clint had laughed, clapped him on the back and slipped something into his pocket. ‘Then this is for later Cupcake, make sure he treats your right.’

And Steve  _ had _ treated him right, even when he wasn’t expecting him to. Even when he was being a stupid horny slut Steve took the time to stop him and to fucking  _ see _ him, and he took care of  _ everything _ .

Bucky thought back to that first moment, the slow realization that he was laying down for another guy, that he was really laying there letting Steve push his legs back and penetrate his body. And it felt weird, and it hurt a little, and he felt so exposed. Everything Steve did made him feel exposed. But then Steve was fully inside him, which was insane! He just let Steve Rogers take his virginity! There was a moment of shock, of holy shit, and this is really happening, before Steve rocked his hips forward, pushing impossibly deeper and said, “Oh my god Bucky”. He said it with such a look of adoration that Bucky relaxed and it didn’t feel weird or hurt anymore; it felt unbelievable.

Bucky wiped his eyes and blew out a breath before allowing himself to smile. Steve Rogers didn’t just fuck him last night. His boyfriend, holy shit his boyfriend, made love to him! Oh, good god, someone call Ryan Gosling and let him know immediately that Steve Rogers is part of his Nicholas Sparks’ lovemaking club. And he’s going to homecoming! With Steve! And he’s Steve’s boyfriend! Also with Steve!

“Steve,” Bucky couldn’t wait another second so he dropped ring number six right on Steve’s very erect cock. “Steve wake up!”

His blue eyes popped open and Bucky saw the same ‘Oh. My. Fucking. God. We. Are. In. So. Much. Trouble!’ thought process making its way through his most likely equally hungover brain so he just waited a few minutes. Bucky could be patient. Finally Steve’s expression softened and Bucky knew he’d made it to ‘The Notebook’ part. He looked down at the rings lined up in a perfect row down his chest and the one on his dick, three points, and he started laughing.

“Hi,” Bucky started.

“Hi,” Steve replied, a question under his little smile.

“We had some awesome sex last night.” Bucky figured he’d just go ahead and put that out there.

Steve laughed, “Yeah, yeah, that’s, um, that’s very true.”

Thank god he laughed! Bucky really liked making Steve laugh and the circles started to shift as his chest bounced. The ab bridge rolled right off the side and disappeared into the crack next to his arm. “So,” Bucky chuckled, “can we do that all the time?”

Steve reached over and tried to smooth down Bucky’s hair, which was a useless effort. His hair always looked like he was the victim of a very aggressive bird trying to build a very impressive nest every morning. It was no joke. But Steve kept trying and it felt awesome.

“I’d like that,” Steve started, but then his expression shifted to concern. He ran his thumb under Bucky’s obviously puffy eyes. “Hey, have you been crying?”

Bucky blew out a breath and let his lips make the fun motorboat sound then dropped another ring on Steve’s dick for shits and giggles, which made his eyebrows do the shocked thing Bucky liked so much. “Yeah well I was having some very deep introspective thoughts a minute ago where I kinda realized that you um, that we maybe…” More motorboating sounded like a good idea at this slightly awkward moment.

“Buck?”

“That we made love.” Oh my god that sounded so stupid! Stupid! This was Clint all over again. He did something sexual, and the guy he was super into was looking at him, and he read it wrong, and...

“That’s also very true.” Steve smiled and it was so open and Bucky’s heart slowed immediately.

“It is?”

“Mmm-hmm”, Steve tugged him down and kissed his cheek.

Wow. Nicholas Sparks it was! Fuck yeah! Then Bucky had a thought and it was a valid one. A sad one, but valid, and one that he was sort-of ok with. “So you can take that homecoming thing back. You aren’t even out yet, I mean really it’s been four days, and let’s not even talk about the drama taking my ass to the dance would cause, and it’s ok, as long as you don’t take the boyfriend thing back.” He looked right at naked Steve, still inexplicably lying there with non-glowing bracelets all over him. God he really liked naked Steve, so he prayed really hard before saying, “you don’t want to take the boyfriend thing back do you?”

“I don’t want to take anything back Bucky.” He put the plastic ab bridge back onto his stomach, carefully balancing it.

“But your friends…”

“Fuck them.”

“But your stepdad.”

“Fuck him.”

“Steve…”

“Stop baby. OK? I finally figured it out. This is me. In the past week you’ve taught me that, and I’m not hiding anymore. From anything. And you’re crazy if you think I’m hiding you!” He touched his finger to the center of each ring one at a time then gave Bucky a super serious look, “I think we should ride things out at school this week, let the people who know just know, but not make a huge deal about it. Let me see where I’m at with Alexander, then let’s just fucking show up together at the dance on Friday.”

“That’s balls out Steve.”

He took the remaining circles out of Bucky’s hand and smiled. “And we’re buying new suits.”

“We are?”

“I have Alexander’s Black American Express card. We’re buying new suits.” Steve took aim and tried to toss a loop onto Bucky’s dick.

“Jesus Steve, I’m not a carnival game.” Bucky could only laugh because the thought of Steve Rogers buying him a suit when all Bucky could manage was getting Steve a ninety-nine cent candy necklace from the dollar store was just silly. This was all so fucking silly. “Ok, I guess you can buy me a fancy suit since I went all out on that very expensive and very sexy candy necklace you’re wearing.”

Steve reached up and ran his fingertips under the elastic, before carefully pulling it over his head. “So are you going to explain why you covered me with a highway of bracelets while I was sleeping? I mean really Bucky, it could be interpreted as creepy.” He grabbed the one off his sternum and made another attempt at ringing Bucky’s cock.

“Maybe I  _ am _ creepy. Maybe you’re dating the creepy guy now.” Bucky clicked his tongue and blew a kiss.

Steve suddenly lurched up, knocking every silly ring onto to the bed, except the ones on his dick, and tackled Bucky. Naked tackling was a very real perk of being Steve Rogers’ boyfriend. Bucky was so down for  _ all _ the naked tackling! Steve pulled Bucky’s arms to his sides before bracketing them with his powerful thighs. Bucky was strong, he worked out like Fergie Ferg, but Steve had him totally pinned. The devious smile that spread over Steve’s face as he reached down and slowly pulled the two rings off his cock was pure wickedness and actually really shocking. There were more secrets behind that look, and holy hell was Bucky excited to find out what they were! Steve leaned forward and placed the rings over Bucky’s nipples before pulling the candy necklace back over his bird nest head. Bucky was breathing fast because holy shit, kinky. This was kinky!

Steve’s eyes got hazy as he put solid pressure on the string. “Well Bucky, two can play at that game.” He bent down and licked across his chest, pulling the string a little harder, and Bucky felt dizzy.

“Hey Steve…” Mr. Kinky raised his eyebrows and released the pressure a little bit. Bucky swallowed because what he was about to say was so goddamned true. “I’m really glad my first time was was you.”

The sigh Steve let out was filled with emotions that Bucky didn’t fully understand, but it felt like a promise, “I’m glad my first time was you too Bucky.”

*****

  
  
Extra Note/Special Treat: Before I started this fic I drew a series of the Avengers as their punk teen versions. I decided to use my punk Hawkeye for this story because I fell in love drawing him. So here he is, my punk Clint so you can picture him in all his spiky glory.

                                                                 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you again for all your great comments and kudos! They make me so happy so keep them coming! I want to give a huge shout out/thank you to [roger-maylor-brian-tay](http://roger-maylor-brian-tay.tumblr.com) for giving me some great feedback that inspired me to push Bucky's character emotionally and to explore the Clint/Bucky chemistry in ways I hadn't even imagined. I'm so happy with the deeper direction and I hope you are too!***Next chapter update will take a little longer because I'm working on a drawing for a very exciting project called 'Not without you: A Stucky Anthology'. Check out my Tumblr (link at bottom of notes) for details! It includes the top artists and writers in the Stucky fandom so you should definitely get on board.***'List of Pop Culture Awesomeness so you know what the hell I'm talking about'-Music: Kanye West and those silly glasses Tony wore. I am not a fan of Kanye the person but I dig his music; Neil Young's protest classic "Fortunate Son" is a great rock jam with the line "It ain't me, it ain't me, I ain't no Senator's son", and since TJ is in fact the son of a Senator I thought it was funny***Movies/TV: 'The Notebook'-I shall forever reference this romantic jam as the end all be all of lovemaking; 'Trainspotting' is my favorite drug movie ever, with a perfect young Ewan McGregor. If drug films aren't triggering for you I highly recommend it. Great story, clever, funny but still impactful, and perfect soundtrack; 'Who framed Roger Rabbit' is a hilarious live action/animated movie about cartoon characters mixing with real life and it was revolutionary when it came out; 'Altered States' is a sci-fi/fantasy/drama from 1980 that explored the use of sensory deprivation tanks and used some very trippy visuals. When I watched 'Stranger Things' and they put Eleven in the make-shift tank I flashed back right away. There's a classic scene where the lead character smashes back and forth against the walls down a hallway to knock himself out of his altered state; 'Avengers' is a HORRIBLE movie with Uma Thurman and Ralph Fiennes that always makes me laugh when I think about our Marvel Avengers. Don't watch it, lol; 'Kill Bill' is the best Uma movie ever! I wanna be badass like her so badly!!!; 'Braveheart' is a movie that everyone else loved but I didn't. But the final scene with the blue warpaint is admittedly pretty awesome; 'The X-files' was such a great TV show! I admit that I was a giant X-files geek and I totally stalked Gillian Anderson a little bit at the Chicago comic-con last summer***Randomness: Let's chat about Bucky's rave pants. I will admit that I owned several pair of these delightful scrappy pants in my heyday and if you don't know what they look like you should google; Green M&Ms supposedly made you horny was stuff of 80's urban legend. Supposedly hair metal bands asked for bowls of only green M&Ms on their riders because of their association with fertility, but the truth was that the managers included this to check if the venues actually read the riders and were following directions. But I like the horny myth more; Jellyfish floating in circles in aquariums are my favorite thing ever. I could sit and stare for hours; Charles Mason was a notorious cult leader in the 60's who convinced three of his female followers to commit a heinous murder. Awful dude, but he totally had Bucky hair; Michelangelo is my favorite Italian Renaissance artist and his statue of 'David' is one of the great treasures of the art world. I had the chance to see it in person in Italy and I have to say its perfect. I picture Bucky's body just like it, and I've gotta say I stood there in that museum staring at that marble ass for much much longer than was appropriate. lmao.*** This Chapters Trivia question will earn you a big bucket of caramel popcorn and a coke slushy! (Oh and nobody got last chapters questions yet so have at it!): Who do you think I'm basing TJ Campbell on?***Follow me on [Tumblr](http://lucidnancyboy.tumblr.com) and [Instagram](https://www.instagram.com/jessielucidart/) to see all of my Stucky and Marvel art! Hugs!!!


	9. The Power of Strange

                                                            

  
Bucky surveyed the dramatic scene in front of him and seriously, it looked like New York after Superman and General Zod broke the whole fucking city. There was broken glass, and knocked over furniture, and a potted plant that looked like someone tried to kill it, and at least four-hundred thousand empty cups and bottles everywhere. All the survivors looked shellshocked and the mansion was capital D-semi truck explosion, satellite fireballs, terraforming gravity smasher thingy, fuck all these buildings-Destroyed! Somehow, he’d made it out alive, and was surreally sitting at Stark’s very long, very white, magically not destroyed marble kitchen counter. He was wearing nothing but blue boxer briefs and one of Tony Stark’s golden sheets wrapped around his shoulders like a cape, because he gave no fucks; like Superman. He laughed to himself. Maybe Brock was General Zod. Steve, who Bucky decided can also be Superman, hadn’t snapped that evil bastard’s neck, but the blood trail he stepped over a minute ago suggested there was some very serious damage rendered. Plus, his shockingly awesome raver pants seemed a bit too awesome for hangover breakfast attire which meant here he was, dressed like gay stripper Superman, parked at this fancy long counter in some sort of breakfast walk-of-shame or house-of-pain, depending on last night’s choice of poison. There were a zillion barstools facing into the kitchen and the whole overly large thing divided it from the sitting room. Sitting room? At least that’s what Bucky thought it was called. He vaguely recalled Skinner calling one of his twenty rooms with hard leather couches a ‘sitting room’ or maybe a ‘parlor’? ‘Parkour’? Bucky had _one_ living room; _one_ couch, _one_ tv, and _one_ non-working fireplace. You know, normal shit.

Steve, his boyfriend (oh hell yes), had the decency to put on his jeans because he was a good respectable young man. Except, there was no red belt of sex to hold up those respectable dark blue jeans at a respectable level, so they were riding deliciously low on his hips. And there definitely was no respectable white polo shirt to cover up his muscular gift-from-god chest in a respectable manner because Bucky might have, perhaps, kicked those two completely unnecessary items really far under the bed...and it was glorious.

Next to half naked Steve, poor Sam had his head smashed on his arms and was emitting a low level moan at a pretty consistent rate. He totally sounded like one of those scary EVPs on ‘Ghost Adventures’; the ones with ‘good tone’ that the super foxy Zak Bagans gets all excited about and describe as ‘Class A’ in his badly written voiceovers. Bucky could not make out what Disgruntled Ghost Sam was moaning but he imagined it was something like ‘the only reason I’m talking to Zac Bagans through this cheap voice recorder is because he’s insanely hot, especially with his little black glasses’. Bucky looked up at Steve and thought he’d look cute with little black glasses too.

On down the line of teenage hooligans was Bruce, who looked surprisingly... fine. He was very intently reading something on his tablet like it was a normal Sunday morning in Old Grandpa Land. Bucky thought a crisp newspaper would add that extra touch of Norman Rockwell authenticity. Then, holy moly guacamole, jesus christ and bob ross, sitting next to Gramps was the biggest surprise of the morning! What the actual fuck was Skinner still doing here? And why the fuck was he still sporting Bucky’s excellent ‘Prodigy’ shirt with his Duran Duran white tie while sitting silently on the stool _with no pants_! Bucky honestly could not believe that the great Skinner was just chillin’ at Tony Stark’s house wearing some navy plaid boxers and staring at the stainless steel refrigerator like he was totally lost. Lost without pants.

Then there was Ezra who was wearing his Gucci sunglasses like a total douche. Bucky decided that the dude was either perpetually drunk or perpetually hungover and never any kind of sober in between. He was just staring at Skinner through the dark lenses, or at least Bucky thought he was staring at Skinner. It was hard to tell behind the dark lenses of Doucheville. Almost as weird as pantsless Skinner was the very real TJ Campbell who was pushing his lips forward in some sort of perpetual pout. His wavy brown hair was sticking up everywhere and it had a lot more poof than his normally slicked back political style. Mr.‘I’m not gay but I’m totally gay’ had very actively avoided Bucky since Kissgate, so sitting seven feet from him while wearing just cheap Hanes boxer briefs and an eighteen-hundred thread count Egyptian cotton sheet, that probably had come on it, was mind-boggling. Oh, and TJ didn’t look hungover like the rest of them. No, Mr. Less than Zero looked high as a fucking kite and kept sniffing and rubbing his nose. Which really, stereotypical much? TJ caught Bucky’s eye before scowling at Steve, sniffing, and pinching his nose. Bucky laughed to himself. Enjoying that closet kitty cat? How about your cocaine kitty litter?

Pepper had her perfectly polished pink toes in TJ’s lap and was allowing a super nervous looking Peter to run his fingers through her long strawberry blonde hair, which was...unexpected? It seemed to Bucky like Peter Parker had never even _touched_ a girl, let alone a hot popular one like Pepper. But should he really be surprised to discover another layer of weirdness in this ‘Hangover’ moment? Seriously, a sneaky monkey and Mike Tyson’s big ass tiger could be chillin in the parkour and he probably wouldn’t even bat an eye at this point. The only truly unsettling thing was that everyone was quiet. It was so quiet that Bucky totally pictured Bjork sneaking around the kitchen in her white feathered swan dress whispering ‘it’s so so quiet’ and he laughed out loud.

“Everything alright over there Barnes?” Peggy Carter glanced over her shoulder from where she was making mimosas like Posh Spice on an episode of ‘Cribs’. She smiled at him but there was nothing genuine under that Victoria Beckham smirk. Oh no no no, it was bitchy. Super fucking bitchy.

Well, two could play at that game so he just replied, “Sure is Carter. Just peachy,” and gave her a Scary Spice smile right back.

“Peggy,” Steve piped up, “how about serving up those drinks?”

Oh, excellent distraction Stevie. Mimosas all around! Now the truth of the matter is that Bucky had no fucking clue what a mimosa was until about five minutes ago when Steve helpfully educated him on the snobby breakfast drinks of the rich and famous. There had been nothing in his brain but complete bewilderment when Peggy popped a fucking champagne cork at ten o’clock in the goddamned morning! It almost blasted Ezra right in the head, whizzing by his ear at close range, and his only reaction was to adjust the douche shades and drawal, “Nice aim honey”. After the near-death-by-cork Bucky looked around expecting some sort of reaction, anything, but nobody else seemed to think there was anything odd about poppin’ bottles like Jay-Z and almost obliterating your friend in the process. Steve totally laughed at him before taking pity on his lower class ass and filling him in.

Peggy chuckled and gave Steve the Posh Spice smile too. “Of course Steven, I’d love to.”

Oh the wonderful Peggy Carter, who Bucky vaguely remembers yelling at Steve in the kick ass basement club last night. Yelling at Steve for making out with Bucky. Oops. What must be going on in her head? She lined up ten glass tumblers in a perfect OCD row right in front of Steve and poured a perfectly equal amount of orange juice into each one before topping them off with bubbling champagne; and she was so fucking pissy while doing it. Truly, it was a real skill to look that fuckin’ pissy while pouring the most fun bubbly liquid in the universe.

“Hair of the dog darlings,” she said in her clipped English accent as she dramatically slid each glass down the counter to each suffering member of the morning-after club. Of course, she took her sweet time pushing the final fizzing glass in front of Bucky before loudly and exuberantly saying, “Here you go sweetheart. Seems like you might need this more than the rest of us; as a celebration I mean.” She raised her glass. Oh fuck, she was gonna out Steve right here, right now! Fuck! “Here’s to new friends, and brand new adventures.” She winked at Steve before taking a dignified sip and flipping her hair at Bucky. Holy shit! Was that the rich version of a cat fight? Did she just try to pull out Bucky’s weave or something?

Bucky suddenly felt Steve’s ankle wrap around his calf and he knew he was top bitch. Not that he was a bitch by any means, but Steve’s toes tickling his skin told him that he trumped Peggy Carter and that’s all that mattered. Feeling suddenly confident that he could win this...whatever this was, he raised his glass right back at her, “I’ll drink to that!”

Tony Stark appeared out of nowhere in the center of the kitchen and let out a huge laugh, “Oh, I’ll drink to that too! I’ll sing hallelujah like Jeff Buckley and and shout Amen with the southern Baptists to that most excellent toast!” He grabbed a glass and raised it towards Bucky. “To new adventures!”

Steve leaned over casually and whispered, “you’re my boyfriend,” before sitting back in his stool all innocent, like that little shit hadn’t purposely made him blush like a sixth grader getting their first love note. Do you like me? Check the box ‘yes’, ‘no’ or ‘maybe’.

Bucky took a sip of his drink and proceeded to giggle into it. He fucking giggled! Him and Molly Ringwald giggling about posh boys named Blane and checking the ‘yes’ box with a thick pink highlighter.

“And we had sex,” Steve pretended to be reaching across Bucky for a nonexistent something as he whispered that little gem.

“Oh my god Steve.” Bucky said at full volume because he was not going to just sit here with pigtails and saddle shoes and let Steve make him giggle. He picked up his delicious mimosa and giggled into it. Goddamn it!

Steve just sat there smiling and it was confirmed; one-hundred percent confirmation that Steve Rogers was a little shit. Bucky rubbed his toes against Steve’s calf and felt pure joy.

Tony was holding court in the center of it all still wearing his flashing Mad Hatter hat, definitely the Johnny Depp version, with nothing else but white boxers with red polka dots. The theme of this afterparty must be underwear, and everyone knows that Bucky loves a theme! He was surprised to note that Tony had a nice body; compact but toned. There was definitely some hot personal trainer with huge boobs at Tony’s disposal in the personal gym that was obviously hidden somewhere in this mansion. No wonder he looked so damn good in all those fancy ass European suits he wore. He was artfully flipping pancakes with a stainless steel spatula at the giant stainless steel stove, because stainless steel everything was the mandatory metal for bazillionaires. Bucky sipped his Mimosa, because he drank Mimosas now, Mimosa, Mimosa, that was a fun word, and watched in amazement as the one and only Tony Stark piled the first overly fancy plate with a perfectly golden yellow stack and actually walked his Mad Hatter polka dot ass across the kitchen to serve Bucky first.  

He loudly addressed the entire hungover crew, “allow me to welcome our new friend, and the official winner of best raver outfit, Ruby Rose!” He plopped the plate down with a clatter before sprinkling powdered sugar dramatically from three feet above the pancakes, and the counter, and in his mimosa. Several chuckles floated over the counter.

“Thanks asshole,” Bucky spit back because... his mimosa! Oh, that got everyone’s attention; Bruce seemed like he was staring at him over reading glasses even though he wasn’t wearing any; Pepper pulled her feet out of TJ’s lap and leaned forward with interest; and Skinner’s eyes got huge. But Bucky wasn’t pissed; not in the slightest. He felt like he was starting to get a deeper understanding of Tony Stark. He may be still calling him every gay name besides his own, but he made a big show of serving him first, and there still was no pig’s blood anywhere to be found.

Tony grabbed another pinch of powdered sugar out of the bowl, flinging it mostly onto Bucky’s pancakes while looking devilishly down the row. “TJ, don’t worry,” Tony shook the last of the sugar off his fingers, “I’ve saved plenty of this for you.”

TJ sniffed and duck lipped and definitely didn’t laugh. “How about you shut up?”

“Ooo testy.” Tony tapped Peggy on the small of her back while locking his big brown eyes with Bucky’s. “Peggy darling, kindly get this young man some syrup. I have the feeling he likes things sticky.”

Skinner almost spit out his drink and definitely started choking, drawing the attention of the ring leader with the polka dot ass. Tony flipped three more pancakes off the stove and waltzed right over to him with plate number two, thankfully drawing attention away from how pink Steve was turning. Pink from his cheeks to his belly button. Yum, belly button.

“Boys and girls, I’d like to welcome our second new friend, who I hear had quite the night with that little minx, Lola Price.” Tony winked at him while Skinner kept right on coughing. “This, everyone,” he gestured wildly with his spatula and it made Bucky think of Spongebob, “this is a fellow Eaton genius they call Skinner, although it doesn’t seem like he was smart enough to keep track of his pants.”

Finally Skinner managed to stop coughing and mumbled, “I plead the fifth,” before cutting into the perfect pancakes and shoving them into his mouth immediately. From whining in the car about being forced to attend this party to shoving homemade Tony Stark pancakes into his face without pants was quite the journey.

“Good call my new friend. Hopefully Lola does the same and doesn’t hang your pants from the school flagpole as proof of your dirty dirty deed done cheap.” Tony slammed his palm loudly on the counter in front of Skinner making his plate clatter.

Out of nowhere a disembodied voice shouted, “woah, what the fuck!”

Everyone jumped in their seats and Tony dropped his Spongebob spatula on the kitchen floor because mother fucking Scott Lang just popped up from behind the loveseat in the sitting room, or the parkour, or living room number five, whatever, and scared the fucking shit out of every single horrifically hungover person in the room! He stood there, fully dressed in a red velvet track suit, looking...well...looking completely fucked up.

“Woah, wow. Hi there. Wow, how’d I get here? Where even am I?” His eyes were huge as he started rubbing his hands up and down his body. “Are these pajamas? Is this velvet? Who put these on me?” He looked up at the row of shocked faces at the counter, “Dudes, what the hell?”

“Oh for goodness sake Scott, come over here and get some water and breakfast before your liver fails.” Peggy poured another glass, of just orange juice. “Have you been on the floor all night?”

He fell into the barstool next to Peter and rested his arms on the counter, “Peggy. Wow, thanks for the juice. I think I need this. Huh, I honestly have no clue.”

Peter was staring at Scott like he was about to explode. “Scott,” he squeaked, “your eyes are totally black!”

“Ha Ha!” Tony dropped another plate in front of Sam the moaning ghost and slammed his hand on the counter again.

“Jesus Tony, will you stop that,” Ezra whined and put his hand over his sunglasses, like the blackness wasn’t enough.

Because Stark is a sadist he slammed his palm down even harder right in front of Ezra. “Tony Stark strikes again with a party that gets everyone grounded for the next month! Success!”

Steve used the distraction to whisper, “you’re my homecoming date.”

Bucky was about to shove him off and slip into giggles again because fine, he felt giddy, but then he turned and caught Steve’s expression. Steve looked giddy too. His blue eyes were sparkling and the skin around them was looking slightly less purple and the swelling was almost gone. Bucky had carefully washed the cut for Steve when they got up, and it was finally scabbed over enough that it didn’t need new bandages. The bruises across his ribcage were starting to turn a sickly yellow, the center darkening into black oval and Bucky suddenly forgot all about mimosas and giggling. How could anyone could hurt him like this. How could anyone hurt a person who had the capacity to smile like Steve was right now?

“Buck, are you ok?” Steve was oblivious to the fact that Pepper and TJ were both staring at them, but Bucky wasn’t.

“Yeah, yeah Steve, let’s talk about it later ok?” he tried to sound convincing as he swallowed it down. Swallowed it under another sip of orange champagne and the feeling of rubbing his toes up and down the top of Steve’s foot. He wanted to wrap his arms around Steve and protect him from all the cuts and bruises that life was throwing at him, but he had the sinking feeling as Pepper and TJ continued staring at him through their magnifying glass, that he was only going to cause more. Steve scrunched his eyebrows together and Bucky could tell that he wanted to ask...but he finally nodded and they finished their pancakes in silence; waiting for the Tylenol Peggy had lined up in front of them all, like a British Nurse Ratched, to start working its magic.

The only reason Bucky could calmly devour these scrumptious pancakes without completely panicking about the very real fact that he didn’t go home last night, was because darling Skinner quickly filled him in on a few important details before they even sat down to this freaky ass breakfast tea party. Detail number one: Natasha was sobered up by three am and left with Daisy and Clint, promising that she would try to keep their dad calm until Bucky made it back. Detail number two: Yes, everyone knew that he was holed up with Steve somewhere upstairs, and yes they all agreed to not disturb them, and yes they were all fucking proud of Bucky. Detail number three: Skinner thinks he saw Natasha dancing with Clint towards the end of the night and he’s positive they were holding his hand as they were leaving. Detail number four: Bucky would process that later, after the hangover went away. Detail number five: Skinner resolutely would _not_ talk about why he was still at Tony Stark’s mansion, with no pants. Detail number six: Bucky could get to the bottom of that one later too. Lola Price was a very scary, very hot brunette who was the top equestrian at Eaton. Bucky always imagined her liking riding crops a bit too much and he felt like he should inspect Skinners ass for some good red lashes. Detail number seven: pancakes.

Everyone else eventually wandered away from the counter, venturing into Superman’s battle arena, but Bucky wasn’t gonna abandon these pancakes! He was in between shoving bites of Sam’s leftovers into his mouth when he decided to just fucking go for it because they were friends now. Sort of...“Hey Tony.”

Stark spun around so fast that the hat fell off his head. He leaned across the counter with a flourish, “Yes dear?”

“Can I use one of your bazillion showers before I leave? I’ve got makeup and candy all over me and if I show up looking like this my dad’s gonna lock me in the attic and never let me leave the house again.”

“You sure that isn’t Steve’s special sauce that you’re concerned about RuPaul?”

Bucky could not believe that Tony Stark just said that! And that he was still leaning on the counter grinning at him like he was the fucking shit and Bucky couldn’t say anything because he just shoved about three bites worth of Sam’s pancakes into his mouth!

“Oh my god Bucky, stop looking like I punched your golden retriever, I’m kidding. I’m a funny guy. Get used to it. Of course you can use one of my bazillion solid gold showers. Just use the one in your den of sin on the fourth floor. It’s stocked.”

Bucky took another swig of his mimosa and tried to decide if he was mad or not.

Tony rolled his eyes. “You can even borrow some clothes and I won’t bitch about it.”

And that was Tony Stark being nice. Huh, Tony Stark was nice to him now.

*****

 

Tony was on a mostly sober solo stealth mission sneaking back to the red room. After ditching Captain Clingy and the rest of the hangover gang he took the elevator (genius brain functioning at full capacity) up to floor number four to execute his brilliant plan. It had come to him somewhere between the giant cleavage and his excellent pancakes, popping into his head as he watched Steve trying to subtly make goo goo eyes at gay dracula. He totally failed at the subtle part, but the idea was Tesla brilliant and he had to follow through because the dick don’t lie! He quietly sang ‘dick’s don’t lie’ in his best Shakira voice while stealthily following his honest dick like a divining rod back to red door number four. The shower was still running as he tip toed into the room, but as soon as it turned off Tony just barged right in.

“Hi! I need to talk to you,” he grinned like he was talking about the weather, not ambushing full frontal Bucky Barnes with his epic plan. Bucky was mid step over the edge of the shower reaching his arm out towards the towel rack. He froze, dripping there in all his glory and made the deepest lines in his forehead Tony had ever seen. “Here,” Tony snatched a monogrammed towel off the shelf and tossed it at him. “One-hundred percent organic cotton, top of the line. It’s gonna feel great on your ass. Gentle you know, unlike Steve.”

“What the actual fuck Stark!” Bucky looked mad, but not like yesterday, more like he’d almost settled down into the highly annoyed zone where most of his friends lived. Tony watched as he started drying off with the towel but made no effort to cover himself; wiping his body and just staring at Tony like ‘what?’

Oh ok, two could play at that game. Tony, still wearing just his festive boxers and his top hat (that he was never going to take off), jumped up to sit on the dark grey counter and said, “are you just gonna keep putting on a show for me Liberace? Showing off your big….piano?” He made a special effort to very obviously stare right at Bucky’s dick.   

“You’re the one who barged in on me, so that’s your fucking problem, not mine.”

“Not much of a problem from what I can see,” Tony leaned back against the steam covered mirror and cocked his head to the side.

“Are you seriously talking about my dick right now?”

“Noooo,” he reached over and drew a giant cock and balls in the steam on the mirror, “I’m talking about your well endowed piano.”

“Oh my god, get the hell out Stark!”

Now he looked mad. Fall back, fall back! Although a naked fist fight could be hilarious. “Ok, Ok, I’m sorry Buckeroo. I got distracted. You know ‘Squirrel’, but ‘dick”. He added a few pubes to his excellent drawing. “But I really do need your help. Your private help.”

“Are you hitting on me!?”

Dude was still standing there totally NC-17 naked. Squirrel! “No, No, No….although I have weirdly realized that I think you’re a very attractive human, which quite frankly is freaking me the hell out. I also realized the other day that I think that stupid blond lug downstairs is attractive too, which is freaking me out even more. This is why I’ve snuck into the commode with you for this super secret 007 spy meeting. I have an idea. I had it this morning. A fully out there, genius combination of 70’s sexual exploration and Studio 54 disco-era-sin idea. And you, my new rainbow friend, are the man to make it happen. You know, for science.” He pointed at Bucky’s dick although he meant to point at his face, and smiled his best multibillion dollar salesman smile.

“You think Steve is hot?”

“That’s all you got out of that paragraph?

“No?”

“Liar. It’s ok Othello, I have another plan. Steve is yours to fuck and suck and whatever else you want to do with him. Will you just listen?”

There was a very long naked pause before Bucky finally wrapped the towel around his waist and sat down on the toilet. He pushed his dripping hair out of his face and sighed. “Ok fine. But only because I’m hungover and tired and naked and too lazy to argue, plus I’m outrageously curious.”

“Alright, alright, alright, that’s the spirit Angelina. Ok, so when you were playing hide the bone with Mr. Human Golden Retriever, Sam and I might have been listening, because we were on an X-Files super spy mission, and we were wasted, and we thought it would be funny, but in all honestly my dick was not laughing. My dick was hard as a rock, like painfully ram rod straight, embarrassingly Viagra hard…”

“Stop. For christ sake Stark!” Bucky covered his face like a scared little mouse, and Tony looked at his dick drawing. Maybe it was a little too over the top Keith Haring? Nah.

“Ok, no more about my unexplained erection. To the point then. You and Steve are hot together. I can admit this. It makes me mad for some unsubstantiated reason, but I can still admit it. I love women. Love them. I think I fucked a much older one dressed as a cat last night. Can’t really be sure. But my nether regions seemed to think I should try this dude thing out. I mean I’m an open-minded guy. This could open up a whole new world to me. I mean joining the bisexual club, or the pansexual club, or the anything goes club; think of the opportunities!” He drew some nice big boobies under the dick.

“Wait, you were spying on us!?”

He added some tiny little nipples and looked back at the drippy naked guy. “Little late on the uptake there pal. But yes, yes I was. But that isn’t the point.”

Bucky did a little exasperated manspreading as he sighed, “What the hell _is_ your fucking point Tony?”

“The bisexual club is my point!”

“That does nothing to explain why you ambushed me in the shower.” Bucky really had a dry delivery. It was impressive.

“I’m getting there Siegfried, hold your tigers. So Friday, after the dance, let’s take the limo to my dad’s business apartment in Tribeca; just the tight knit Rock Band club, even though we haven’t play rock band yet. I know some people, who know the right people, that can get us into Therapy, which is one of the hottest gay clubs in the city. I did research, Saturday they have a bunch of DJ’s coming in from Chicago so you can flashdance all night long. You and Steve can be my wingmen, and I can take this brilliant hypothesis for a real life test drive.” He drew a stream of come squirting out of his steamy dick so it looked like it was hitting him in the head.

Bucky pushed his hair back again and it made little drops start sliding down his chest and his organic cotton towel was coming undone so Tony could see the top of his thigh. Oh, Bucky was talking...

“...get this straight. You get _one_ drunk boner and suddenly you want me to help you pick up a guy?”

“Two drunk boners.”

“What?”

Tony pointed at his dick like it should be obvious. “Your hair is dripping down your chest and it’s just very attractive.”

Bucky’s closed his eyes like he was Dorothy trying desperately to get back to Kansas. Tony imagined him clicking his shiny red heels and chanting ‘there’s no place like home, there’s no place like home’ to escape accidental erection number two. The dick don’t lie.

“Jesus fucking christ.” He tugged his towel tight again. “Great, you get _two_ drunk boners and suddenly you want me to help you pick up a guy”

“Yes.”

“Yes?”

Poor Bucky seemed so overwhelmed. Maybe he should get him another mimosa to help with his pain and suffering, but that was way too far away in the kitchen so Tony just said, “yeah, I’m a jump-in-head-first-totally-naked-with-my-eyes-closed-into-a-pool-filled-with-dicks kinda guy.”

“You realize Steve isn’t even out yet right? That he’s been gay for about five minutes?”

The steam was disappearing taking his Keith Haring tribute along with it. Sad. That visual aide was definitely helping his case for gay exploration. “Details, details sweetheart. He’s my bestie, he’ll be cool with it. Plus if you’d seen the way he was drooling and brooding and lusting and puppy-eying you last night you would know, as I do, that he’s gonna jump at the chance to interact with you in your natural habitat.”

“I want Clint to come.”

“Absolutely Rosie O’Donnell.”

“I want you to stop calling me gay celebrities names.”

“Absolutely not George Takei.”

“I want you to never spy on me and Steve again.”

“Absolutely, although my penis thinks that’s sad,” Tony whined with an exaggerated frown.

“Fine.”

“Fine?” He couldn’t believe his ears! That actually wasn’t that hard, well his dick was, but not the convincing part.

“Yes asshole.” Bucky leaned back against the toilet and looked a little shocked at himself. “It actually sounds fun. I’ve never been to a club, so that pretty much sold it right fucking there, and if you can get me into a gay club I suppose I can endure one night of helping you exploit the LGBTQ community for your amusement.” He looked at Tony like he was a sleazy dirty pervert before continuing his passive aggressive acceptance speech. “My morals are being overridden by the visual image of Steve at a gay club and let me tell you, it’s a very good visual image. You should tell him to wear a tank top.”

“Now look who’s exploiting his super buff boyfriend for his amusement. But I get it, Edison’s light bulbs have been switched on at full power and I get it. So you want Steve in a tank top as your reward? Then I’ll get you Steve in a tank top! Do you want a red bow on his dick? Actually never mind, I don’t think I can swing that.”

Bucky was just staring at him, still dripping. “Can you leave now?”

“Fine, fine, fine,” he said while re-adjusting his hat. “I knew I could count on you, my little pink unicorn! You won’t regret this. You may be my new bestie! Don’t tell Steve, he would cry. I shall make my exit, since everyone is probably wondering why the hell we’ve been in the bathroom together for twenty minutes. I’m gonna tell them I sucked your dick, just to see what happens.”

He quickly leapt off the counter and readjusted the obvious boner in his boxers so it wasn’t so obvious and rushed out of the room before his new gay sidekick could come to his senses.

Bucky’s voice echoed down the hallway. “Don’t you fucking dare say that!”

“Thanks for letting me suck your dick Bucky!” he screamed and cackled before slamming right into Steve and Sam’s stupid big chests as they walked out of the elevator. Their mouths dropped open in unison and oh yeah, they heard that, and their huge eyes also told him that they saw that too. His dick that is.

Bucky’s voice was faint as it bounced off the walls but god bless America, you could still hear him scream, “Stark! I swear…”

Tony grinned ear to ear and clapped bestie number one and bestie number two on their stupid overdeveloped shoulders and said, “so you boys ready for the gay club or what?”

Tony had some planning to do!

*****

 

Steve found himself back on the same eight by six foot rectangle, huddled in the corner of his bed with his back pressed against the clear glass pane. He was wearing nothing except his favorite grey flannel sweats, because they were soft like Bucky, and the naked skin of his back was clinging to the cool glass. He wiggled his toes up and down on the folds of his flannel sheets and took note of the digits perfectly straight angle, slanting downhill with no Renaissance inspiration. He wished Bucky’s toes were pressed into his palms again and he sighed. He couldn’t decide if his tiny corner seemed more bleak than usual or if it seemed better. Did having something to hope for make reality more unbearable? Steve let his head fall heavily against the glass and turned to gaze out over Central Park. The sun was just about to drop below the black monoliths of the city; rectangles within rectangles within rectangles; designated spaces that designated people returned to day after day after day. There were persistent rays catching the golden yellow and pumpkin orange hues of the leaves at the very tip tops of the tall trees; like only those that stretched their branches high enough were worthy of those extra moments of illumination. He peeled his skin off the glass and stood up on his rectangle, his feet struggling to find balance on the mattress, and leaned his entire six foot frame against the glass. Stretching up as tall as his bones would allow Steve pressed his palms to the very top inch of the pane. He could sense the light catching the skin of his wrists, his palms, his fingertips, and he almost let himself imagine a life beyond Alexander...almost.

He’d taken ecstasy exactly one time, when Ezra and Tony talked him into going to an EDM festival the summer before Junior year. Ezra convinced him that ‘taking E was necessary to get the full experience!’ so he’d swallowed the little blue pill and disappeared into a maze of lights and spirals and hands. There are flashes of mind expanding memories from that night; a girl with dreadlocks strung with sparkling glass beads rubbing his shoulders as they sat on a patch of dewy grass; dancing for hours with rolling bodies that seemed to have no beginning and no end; and feeling his brainwaves line up with the synchronized swings of a firedancer.

But then the memories tilt, shifting sideways at a sharp angle; phasing in after perfectly parallel parking a Dodge Ram in an impossibly tight spot and not knowing who the person was in the passenger seat, or who the car belonged to, or how he was even driving because he didn’t remember getting in the car. Phasing in making out with a girl with blonde pigtails in a bathroom stall in a restaurant that he didn’t remember going to. Not being able to stop. Just stop. Just stop. Stop it. Stop it. Stop it! Ezra placing a white pill on his tongue, telling him it would help slow his roll. Waking up on the bathroom floor of a hotel next to a dozen empty water bottles and feeling like he was dead. He crashed, and he crashed hard. For several horrific weeks afterwards nothing seemed the right color and he was so low that he couldn’t even make himself care that red wasn’t red or that green wasn’t green. He couldn’t make himself care about anything. Compared to the pulsating power of that serotonin blast, everyday life was meaningless, and pale, and pointless. That biochemical drop was the closest thing to describe how his mood suddenly went from fireworks, and confidence, and the joy of Bucky to the harsh painful reality of Alexander in the blink of an eye.

Steve let his hands audibly slide down the glass with a sickening squeak as the sun left him completely in the dark. He didn’t even want to lay on his designated rectangle, staring at the same ceiling and feeling the same shit, so he stretched his body out spread eagle on the marble floor and tried to find the firedancer.

The drive back to Brooklyn, after they pulled it together enough to leave Tony’s, had been a series of perfect bubbling moments. Bucky laughed so hard at his horrific attempt at harmony during ‘The Morning Sing-Along” that he almost puked. Maybe insisting that Steve sing the backup part to a very enthusiastic version of ‘I can’t feel my face when I’m with you’ by The Weeknd, wasn’t the best idea with hangovers. Then Bucky chose ‘The YMCA’, complete with mandatory hand motions for the ‘Morning Dance Party’ to, as he put it, ‘celebrate Steve’s new gayness’. They held hands without pause, and laughed about nothing. They planned their adventure in Tribeca and flirted shamelessly the entire drive. Steve could almost feel his pupils expanding to their very limit.

When they got to Bucky’s house, he strangely parallel parked the truck with perfect three point technique and hopped out of the car, his unbuckled spider webs making rustling noises as they dragged along the leaf covered sidewalk. Steve slid out of the passenger seat and phased in to kissing Bucky deeply on the sidewalk, his arms wrapped fully around his waist, with no end and no beginning. There was no distortion, no memory loss or feelings of panic, because Steve knew exactly where he was and exactly how he got here, and he never wanted to come down.

Then it all dropped; nine concentric circles leading Steve lower and lower towards the center of the earth. The first level of descent was almost immediate. Bucky waved from behind his beat up red door flashing a huge toothy grin as Steve slid behind the wheel. The front door shut at the exact same moment he slammed the car door and he just sat there in limbo; staring at the wheel for what seemed like an eternity. He didn’t want to drive. He didn’t want to touch the wheel. Logically he knew he had to, and he knew what he was supposed to do, and how he was supposed to do it, but he didn’t want to. Steve felt the first hints of sadness creeping through the vents in curling plumes of black smoke as he readjusted the seat. He breathed in the first polluting molecules as he moved the mirrors and raised the steering wheel, effectively removing Bucky’s form from the memory of machinery.

The second level of descent enveloped him as he counted the forty-nine bumps back across the Brooklyn bridge. He felt the old familiar dread returning and it made him feel cold. Even with the heat cranked up it made no difference. Each bump meant that he was driving further away from what he wanted; from _who_ he wanted. Bump twelve: the sharp square jaw caught between his teeth. Bump twenty-one: the soft brown hair tangled around his fingertips. Bump twenty-nine: the soft sensual lips parting for his tongue to slip between them. Bump thirty-three: the sculpted abs with come splattered artistically across them. Bump thirty-nine: the perfect round ass that he wanted to lick. Bump forty-four: the feeling of fucking him. Each bump accentuated the reality of his lust, and the space he was putting between his hands and the object of his desire.

Steve slipped down to the third circle when he twisted his key in the shiny metal elevator. There was no homey red door for him to open, with the smells of Sunday dinner hitting his nose as he turned the handle. His mother wasn’t waiting behind their blue door with a gentle hug and sliced apples with a side of warm caramel for dipping. There was only a bleak silver key slotting in an impersonal penthouse lock and he was starving. As the elevator began its ascent he pictured Bucky laying in the middle of their golden bed covered with every kind of candy. Ropes of red licorice criss crossing his chest in tight patterns, silver Hershey’s kisses lined up in perfect rows along the ridges of his calves and thighs, red and white peppermints placed precisely on his nipples and one on his belly button, sparkling sugar covered gumdrops in a curve across his forehead, and everything delicious and delectable and decadent that Steve could possibly imagine. The elevator started filling with a vile, putrid slush, surging through the cracks at an alarming rate. Steve knew he was creating it with his desire to devour all of Bucky; to gluttonously shove every piece of candy into his stomach until he was bloated and engorged and sick, and he didn’t care.

The fourth level, with its monochromatic oppression, sunk Steve several miles lower the instant the doors slid open to reveal hopeless white and confused grey and thick violent black. Was it greedy to want Bucky’s color all to himself? Could he be faulted for desiring every precious ounce of red, yellow, blue and green when the vibrant hues could easily cover everything else, and paint him a new picture...a new life? Steve thought about Bucky slamming his skull against the headboard and he knew the supply wasn’t endless, so maybe he _was_ greedy for wanting Bucky to saturate his life.

He immediately plummeted to the fifth circle with a devastating lurch as the elevator doors slammed shut behind him. The Devil’s voice echoed out of the study with the carefully measured calm of a sociopath, “Steven, we need to talk.”

Alexander was in the study surrounded by three walls lined with rigid books, sitting on his rigid leather couch with his rigid posture. He was holding a thick book at eye level with his coffee cup carefully balanced on his knee with his right hand. Steve wanted to kill him. For the first time in his life he felt unbridled wrath and all he could see was blood.

Steve felt his lip curling as Alexander glanced up over the edge of his book. His reading glasses were perched on the tip of his nose and Steve wanted to brutally smash them into his skull; his white dress shirt was unbuttoned at the collar and Steve wanted to paint it with broken glass and pulverized brain matter. But Steve just stood there, doing nothing as Alexander carefully analyzed Steve’s face and said, “I was informed that you haven’t been sleeping here since Wednesday. Where have you been?”

“Staying with friends.” There was no tone to Steve’s voice and he felt dead.

“I see. And now you’re back, I presume, after your vacation. You have responsibilities here Steven.”

“Yes.”

Alexander studied his face again. “I needed you to attend a ribbon cutting ceremony on Thursday but I can see that won’t be possible. So I’ll expect you at the Met Gala next Wednesday. Talk to Jade about getting fitted for a new tuxedo. The theme is more avante garde than the usual black tie. Are we clear?”

“Yes.”

“The times at the next swim meet will be better as well?”

“Yes.”

“I hope so.” He took a sip of his coffee then looked back to his book and Steve recalled the feeling of Brock’s nose cracking under his fist and he longed to smash Alexander’s; to hear the same symphony of snapping bone and spilling blood as he hit him again, and again, and again. Perhaps he should spend some quality time in the fifth circle; wrath seemed to fit his needs.

“Steven, we’re done here.”

He realized that he’d been standing there staring; imagining beating Alexander to death in great gory detail. There was sudden pain in his palms as he extracted his fingernails from where he’d unconsciously buried them in the skin, and he felt afraid...afraid of himself. Steve drifted down the hall to his designated rectangular room and crawled onto his designated rectangular bed and tried desperately to phase back to the serotonin high of the morning. Back to the high of golden brown pancakes, overflowing orange tumblers, and powdered sugar kisses where the oppression of the glass and steel walls couldn’t suck him back down.

But he couldn’t stop wondering what was going to happen at school tomorrow? What was going to happen with Brock? What was going to happen with the Economics test he didn’t study for? What about the paper he didn’t write? What new lie was he going to invent to explain the cuts and bruises? What was Bucky doing right now? Was he listening to music in his messy room? Was he getting yelled at by his dad? Would he even be allowed to go the the dance? Could he go to Tony’s apartment for the weekend? Was Mr. Barnes going to call Steve into his office and scream at him for keeping Bucky out overnight again? Would his dad even let them date? What was going to happen when everyone found out he was gay? What would happen if _Alexander_ found out he was gay? Was he about to lose it completely and bash in Alexander’s skull like he lost it and punched Brock? He started to panic...and slammed immediately to the coals of the seventh circle. He wanted to destroy it all, with violence worthy of poetry.

Steve tried to slow his breathing, to stop his mind from spiraling. Please just breathe. Why was it so hard to just breathe? Dammit. He managed to suck in a shuddering breath as he shoved backwards against the glass, but he only slid deeper into the seventh circle where every thought was distorted. There was no escape. There was no life beyond Alexander’s hell. He would never be truly happy. The black feathered wings folded over Steve’s eyes as he felt the perfect weightless sensation of jumping...  

He couldn’t go there. He couldn’t! So he smashed his fists against his thighs and screamed, “fucking stop!!!”, into the empty room.

It had taken Steve a long time to calm down and purge Dante’s concentric circles from his mind, but eventually the sun had started to set and he gazed out over Central Park. The sun transformed the buildings into black monoliths, and he felt the light penetrating his skin as he stretched as high as his muscles would allow. God he was a real piece of work. If Bucky truly knew what went on inside his brain he’d probably run in the other direction.

The solid marble supporting his weight felt like a tomb. Steve had been laying there in the dark long enough to feel the chill in his core, so he crawled back onto his bed to attempt to break the cycle with another poem. Running the last hour through his mind he laughed out loud when he realized that Alexander wasn’t the devil waiting for him at the bottom of the pit! Alexander was the pompous, closed-minded, cruel and absent God whose irrational rules, impossible expectations and unfair judgement shoved him lower and lower! Steve felt a hint of warmth licking at his diagonal toes and he imagined horns sprouting from Bucky’s head as his heat melted the impenetrable ice of the ninth circle of hell. He managed a smile; the first one that had graced his face since the car door slammed in Brooklyn. He opened his sketchbook to absorb the drawings from yesterday; the lines of a jaw, the tendrils of hair, the words about color, before flipping to a fresh page.

 

The Power of Strange 

A transparent ghost sauntering through the halls.

A crumbling brick hiding deep within a strong facade.

A blank canvas of emptiness

not purity, not potential.

But a void.

 

But you hold a special power

being Strange.

This power let you peek under my door

and make my skin opaque.

When groups of ten or twelve or three

walked by right in front of me

you stopped,

and saw my solid form.

 

You hold a special power

being Strange.

This power let you look between the mortar,

to see that even though I seemed strong like the rest

I was crumbling inside.

My core was full of cracks

but still, you saw beauty

and took the time to skillfully repair my pieces.

 

You hold a special power

being Strange.

A camel brush loaded with brilliant color

you took the void and showed me the lie of it all.

Thick paint splashed across my skin,

red blue orange and green.

Transforming what was nothing

into a new masterpiece.

 

A solid man walking down these halls.

A solid brick supporting your weight.

A life full of color, potential realized.

I’m so thankful you took the time to see,

 

That I’m strange too.

*****

 

“Are you ever gonna talk to me without yelling again?” Bucky was crammed, as usual, in the back of the tiny Toyota with Clint and he was being seriously ignored.

“Definitely not,” Phil said looking straight at the road. Man, his dad was so damn good at the short sentence guilt trip.

Bucky sighed for a very very very long time before shoving the rest of his strawberry pop-tart into his mouth. Spitting crumbs everywhere he mumbled, “can we at least get Starbucks?”

“Yes,” his dad said impatiently, “we’re going to Starbucks but _you_ aren’t getting anything.”

Clint patted Bucky on the shoulder and blew out a sympathetic whistle. “That’s harsh dude.”

Bucky’s fall flavored frappuccino dreams crumbled and he almost cried salted caramel tears. Crying over extra whip and pumpkin spice seemed lame, but it was sad. So fucking sad! He sunk dramatically down in his seat and pouted something fierce before whining, “that’s cruel and unusual punishment dad!”

Phil turned the corner onto Flatbush Avenue, which mean the coffee was getting close, and turned into sassy-dad. “Everyone else in this car, at least somewhat, understands how to follow rules.”

Natasha was definitely avoiding looking into the back seat because she knew damn well she wasn’t some innocent little baby bird either! She thought she was all innocent because she didn’t accidentally fall asleep after getting seriously drunk and losing her virginity to a guy she’d only been talking to for a few days and then not come home...huh, ok...that was pretty bad.

Parking in front of the Brooklyn Starbucks on 7th Avenue, ‘sassy-dad’ and ‘Nat the Innocent’ got out of the car to order everyone else a delicious life-saving cup of beautiful coffee, which was such bullshit. Clint leaned up excitedly and yelled, “Nat, I want one of those fall concoctions that Bucky loves so much, with the extra whip.”

What the fuck! Bucky had possibly never felt so betrayed in his entire life! He jammed his foot against ‘Clint the Betrayers’ ass and yelled, “you don’t even like those!”

“I know, I just wanna rub it in cupcake.” Clint did some sort of evil Count Chocula laugh, which was really convincing because his hair was slicked back like Vlad the Impaler in some sort of Romanian vampire mohawk bun. It was such a dick move. He was best friends with a total dick!

Nat leaned back through the car door and scolded, “Barton, that’s not very nice.” She slowly blinked her eyes a few times, obviously casting some sort of love spell with her Cover Girl Lash Blast magic wands.

Count Chocula the Impaler was lash-blasted back against the seat, utterly defeated. “Fine, I’ll take a large Dark Roast, and can you shake a shit-load of cinnamon into it?”

She smiled a little satisfied smirk before slamming the door. Wow, they held hands once and Clint was whipped already! “Pussy!”, Bucky hollered, slapping him on the thigh and throwing a Count Chocula laugh right back in his pussy-whipped face.

As they drove the rest of the way to school Bucky watched the three traitors sipping their perfectly caffeinated beverages and he wanted to growl at them. He was totally growling inside! Like an angry bear, or a mad dog, or a rabid wolverine, or any growling animal really. Growling because life on complete and total lockdown was shitty and stupid: no phone, no hanging out with Steve, no internet, no hanging out with Steve, no coffee, no hanging out with Steve and worst of all; no hanging out with Steve! His only hope for escape was if he nailed every test and assignment for the entire week and pulled his El horrible Spanish grade out of the el gutter-o. Only then would sassy-dad unlock the bars of this supermax prison and let him go to the very important ‘Steve Rogers comes out of the closet’ homecoming dance.

Seriously, it’s gonna be pretty fucking hard for Steve to come out when his shiny new boyfriend is stuck in Alcatraz.

He imagined Steve’s homecoming king acceptance speech: ‘Thank you, fellow rich and beautiful students, for electing me as your King. I was hoping to introduce you to my wonderful middle class boyfriend Bucky Barnes this evening and to let everyone know that I’m hella gay, but he’s infinitely grounded because we got totally wasted and had awesome sex and he didn’t get home until one p.m. the next day. To sum it up, I’m super gay now and tragically all alone for infinity. Thank you.’

Natasha swung her head around to stare at Bucky. Did he just growl out loud? Clint was snorting into his fucking coffee cup so Bucky just owned it and let out a grumpy badger growl at both of them. He wished he wore a hoodie today, because he would totally yank that shit over his head like a growling Sith Lord and growl all fucking day.

Fact: life without a phone sucks! Especially when his dad rolled into his room last night holding his glowing iphone up in the air like an accusation. “Bucky! Why is Steve texting you about an appointment with a tailor after school on Tuesday?” Phil pushed the screen into his face so quickly that the tiny little words looked blurry. “And do you think saving his name as ‘Steve my fucking hot boyfriend’ is really necessary?”

Bucky decided that his dad was an idiot for not understanding the complete accuracy of that description. “It’s totally necessary Dad!” he scoffed and continued, “he’s my boyfriend, he’s fucking hot, his name is Steve. I speak the truth.”

The sigh his dad let out was very longsuffering. After the hour and a half long lecture he nailed Bucky with after Steve dropped him off, he supposed long-suffering was an understatement. “And the tailor? Is this a serious text? Is this a code for something Bucky? Because I swear to god if you two…”

“He’s buying us suits,” Bucky interrupted.

“Come again?” Oh yeah, that look was way past long suffering.

Bucky sat up on his bed where he’d been studying stupid Espanol. Cumo Estas blah blah zapatos blah blah blah amarillos. He was gonna fail and never ever see Steve again. “For the dance. He said he wanted to get us suits for the dance.”

“Oh Bucky.” Phil plopped down in the pink desk chair.

“What?”

He put the phone down on top of the disorganized piles of shit and shook his head in disappointed dad mode. “That is so wrong that I don’t even know where to start.”

“C’mon Dad, it’s not a big deal, I mean it is. I’ll admit it’s kinda sugar daddy but without the thirty year age gap, but he just wants us to look nice, and to stick it to his stepdad a little bit. He’s got a credit card to use…”

“Bucky, you’re making it worse.” Poor Phil was deflating like a balloon, and dropped his head into his hands.

Bucky swung his legs off the bed and put on his best earnest face because he could not miss out on the tailor! “C’mon dad, I swear I won’t screw up like yesterday again. I’ll do everything you say this week. I’ll get my shit together. I promise. Just please let me go to the tailor.”

“You realize how ridiculous that sounds right?”

“Oh yeah. Believe me I do.”

“I’m checking your grades at the end of the day Tuesday and if they’re good you can go. But just to the tailor then straight home. Understand?”

“One-hundred percent!” Bucky hopped up, hitting his leg on his desk and making the piles shake, then saluted. “I’m gonna be so damn perfect that you’ll be amazed and shocked and maybe even a little proud!”

And that’s where he was in life; being denied caffeine after waking up without Steve, which sucked, after not being allowed to text or talk to Steve, which also sucked, and knowing damn well that he didn’t know enough about the conju-lame-ation of Jugar de la tacos and vaca con leches to get a good enough grade on this stupid lame Espanoloziolio test to ever see Steve again. They pulled into the parking structure Bucky was so fucking thankful for his dad’s first floor super special reserved Principal spot. He didn’t want to go to the fourth floor ever again. Ever! He couldn’t stop himself from wondered if Steve’s blood was still splattered on the concrete, which just fucked up his no-caff, no phone, no Steve morning even more.

Once they walked into the empty main hallway of the school Clint grabbed Bucky horror movie style and yanked him into a side hallway. “Dude! Tell me!”

This could be a bargaining chip. Bucky would take full advantage of this opportunity because all’s fair in coffee and war. He made grabby hands and demanded, “give me some of your coffee first.”

Clint laughed and took a big gulp before handing it over. “I mean bro, you’re even grounded from _coffee_ so it had to be really fucking good!”

Bucky blushed because this was Clint, and Steve was the only guy he’d been with since...well, Clint...and it was….fuck...whatever. He sucked on his lower lip and just laid it out there, “it was really fucking good.”

Clint yanked him into a huge hug and almost knocked the priceless coffee out of his hands. “Damn you owe me for bringing that lube! Tell me!”

Bucky chugged Clint’s dark roast with too much cinnamon, and while it was not a perfect frappuccino it was something. “I’ve gotta get to practice but I’ll tell you at lunch.”

“Oh my god you’re blushing like a little Christmas Elf!” Clint tickled him on his sides, because he was a dick and always used Bucky’s numerous ticklish spots to his advantage. “A little Elf on the shelf who has been naughty naughty naughty!”

“Shut up dork,” Bucky giggled, because he could feel that he was indeed blushing like a wee little elf, “I gotta go.”

Jogging towards the locker room stairs he took a monumental swig of the stolen coffee, trying to get through the door before Clint noticed Bucky’s totally justifiable crime. Because seriously, grounding someone from _coffee_ was fucking barbaric!

*****

 

After practice Brock threw his oversized gym bag so hard against the locker room bench that it made Rhodes jump.

“Woah, you ok man?” Rhodes asked while staring at him with wide eyes, but Brock could tell he didn’t really care about the answer. He was just afraid Brock was gonna pop off, which yeah, he should be fuckin’ afraid.

He ripped open the zipper and snarled, “do I look like I’m ok?”

“Jeez man, just asking.” He threw on his jacket and walked towards the door. Brock heard him mutter, “What the hell?”

What the hell? What the hell, huh? It was pretty goddamn simple! That fuckin’ little twink showing everyone up at practice _again_ was the problem! Who the fuck did this kid think he was?! To barge in on _his_ goddamned turf and make everyone look weak, while wearing those faggy clothes to boot? It pissed him off. It made him fucking furious! Brock jerked his black jeans up over his hips and aggressively buckled his belt while watching as that little shit pulled a mother fucking green Kermit the Frog t-shirt over his head! Really? A goddamned Muppet!? Brock pulled his grey dress shirt over his shoulders and felt it stick to his damp back.

Steve wasn’t fooling him. It was plain as day that Steve fucking Rogers had thrown Brock to the curb, like they were never friends, so he could stick his dick in that cum dumpster’s ass. Getting him suspended was total bullshit and his dad lost it when he found out! It was Steve and his little fuckboy’s fault that his father yelled at him for the past four days! Carlisle’s disappointed words started screaming through his brain: ‘Rumlow’s don’t get caught. Haven’t I taught you anything? How do you expect me to trust you to work in the family business if you can’t even rough up a little cocksucker without getting busted?’ Brock felt his blood starting to boil and couldn’t stop himself from staring at the reason his dad pulled him off his first real job. A month ago he was assigned to work with Danny, collecting on loans and acting as the eyes, but his dad ripped that away as soon as Phil Barnes made that goddamned phone call.

He finished buttoning his shirt and walked to the sinks noticing that everyone except Parker, Wilson, Steve, the twink and Frank had left for first hour. Brock purposely took his time brushing his jet black hair back in the mirror. In the reflection he saw Rogers stroll right over to his new little toy and have some sort of conversation about how much he liked sticking his cock in that fag’s ass, or something, before shouldering his bag and leaving. Brock rolled his sleeves up and watched the fag bend over to put on his jeans. Oh yeah, that must be just how he likes it; how his supposed friend Steve Rogers must like to fuck it. His squeezed the handle of the comb so tightly that his fingers turned white as he grimaced into the mirror. Their goddamned lying Captain put the whole fuckin’ team in jeopardy by ratting him out before the swim meet. Brock should have been there! Steve had no fuckin’ loyalty! Brock pressed his half hard cock painfully against the solid edge of the sink as that cum dumpster pulled his pants up over his ass. Fuck him! He threw the comb at the mirror and watched as that fucking cock sucking twink had the nerve to swing his hair around to stare at him through the glass.

Brock pushed his hips forward even harder and felt the pain of it deep in his belly. “What are you lookin’ at faggot?”

The fucker had the nerve to respond, “Um, apparently you, struggling with some anger management issues.”

Frank was suddenly behind him, blocking the view of the twink. “Everything ok Brock? This is a pretty public place to be having this conversation.” He shook his head towards Parker who was still fucking around by his locker and whispered, “not here.”

“Yeah, everything’s fuckin’ perfect.” He grabbed the comb and stormed back to his locker. That little fucker had the nerve to stand there in that stupid tight t-shirt, with his fuckin’ wet hair and stare right at Brock while he buttoned up his skin tight jeans! Brock shoved past Parker and shouted, “fuckin’ move,” before throwing open the solid metal door. “Everyone just fuckin’ move!”

*****

 

Steve was a scared coward who didn’t deserve someone like Bucky Barnes and that was the goddamned truth. It was Monday morning and the clock on the oven read five-fifteen a.m. when Steve committed his first act of cowardice. Alexander had been waiting for him in the kitchen when Steve turned the corner to grab breakfast. Already dressed in a perfectly tailored grey pinstripe suit with a white pocket square, he was standing at the granite island with a giant white mug of steaming hot coffee in front of him; just standing there...waiting. Steve wanted to disappear, but it was too late for that.

“Steven,” Alexander started, rotating the mug ninety degrees, “Maria Stark sent me a very interesting email last night.”

Just get through this. Just get to school...to Bucky. Just breath...dammit! Steve reflexively touched the painful spot on his ribs before opening the refrigerator and wishing he could just climb into it like a magical gateway to Narnia. Every horrific possibility flashed through his brain at lightning speed as he asked, “about?”

Alexander paused, using his familiar torture technique of letting Steve stew, while he turned the mug another ninety degrees. “She wanted to know if you were bringing a date to the homecoming dance Friday.” Steve’s eyes were locked on that mug as it scratched against the granite and swung another ninety. “She needs to get a correct count for the party favors she’s planning for the limousine. Apparently, Tony was being cryptic on the subject.”

“Um, well I haven’t…”

“Which,” he interrupted, the mug hitting three-hundred and sixty degrees, “I found interesting since you haven’t even mentioned a dance to me.”

Steve reluctantly shut the fridge, closing off all hope escaping through warm wool and comforting fur, and turned to face the reality of what was about to happen. “I was going to take Sharon Carter but that didn’t work out so…”

Alexander bowled over him again as he dumped the entire mug of black liquid into the sink. “The Carter family has a good reputation Steven, perhaps you should reconsider.”

He wanted to just scream that he was taking Bucky, but he didn’t. He didn’t because he was a goddamned coward. What he did say was, “just tell Mrs. Stark I’m going alone.”

“Just tell her that someone of your status can’t get a date? _That’s_ what you’d like me to tell Maria Stark?” His voice was still quiet as he refilled the mug with steaming hot coffee from the pot, but Steve knew the menace underneath.

“No, I just don’t want to hurt Sharon’s feelings, and everyone else already has a date, so I’ll just go stag. It’s not a big deal.” Like a dog can sense an earthquake before it happens Steve felt the imperceptible vibration building through the counter...

“It’s an embarrassment!” Alexander charged Steve and slammed the mug so hard against the counter that the scorching black liquid splashed in a high arc onto the skin of Steve’s arm.

“Fuck!” he screamed and tried to stand up, to do something for once, but Alexander grabbed him by the back of the neck and hissed in his ear, “ _you’re_ an embarrassment,”  before shoving Steve forward against the counter and storming into the study, slamming the door.

Sitting there, hauling in panicked breaths and watching the skin on his arm turning bright red Steve saw blood; viscous rivers spreading outwards from his burnt skin, enveloping the whiteness of the half empty mug before gaining speed and consuming the entire granite rectangle. Every edge of that rectangle became the tipping point; dark murderous waterfalls pouring thickly over the edges to create a wrathful cube. It was five-twenty-two a.m. and he was already a liar and a coward and contemplating murder.

Once he made it to school, the irony of Bucky sauntering through the locker room door holding a happy cup of coffee with ‘Clint’ clearly written on the side was so fucked up that he just laughed into his locker. He imagined a cruel and sinister god having a gay old time mocking him. Steve just wanted to drink one of Bucky’s favorite sugar-filled frappuccinos drenched with dreamy whip cream and press the soothing coldness against his stinging arm.

Bucky was wearing emerald green pajama pants with bright yellow pineapples plastered all over them and a brutally ripped Marilyn Manson t-shirt that allowed a large strip of his stomach to peek through. He wanted to slide his palm under the black leather jacket and into that hole, allowing the skin of Bucky’s belly to warm his hand like the light from the window. But he didn’t. The nutty top-knot was back which made Steve remember how it felt to pull his fingers through that endearing mess yesterday, and getting stuck in the tangles. He wanted to get stuck there again, to run right over to him and push his fingers underneath the waves...but he didn’t.

That vibrant mess was his boyfriend. Boyfriend. He liked thinking it, and he liked knowing it, but surrounded by the whole team in this windowless basement hole he felt nervous. Feeling the painful sting on his right arm he felt nervous. He felt nervous about everything. So even though every nerve in his body was screaming for him to reach out and touch, and to bury his nose in that messy hair and hide there for eternity, he didn’t. He just quietly changed into his swim trunks and only managed to send Bucky one tiny pathetic smile from across the cold tile room. Steve felt Bucky’s questions and his arm started throbbing. It was five-fifty-five a.m and he was a liar and a coward and already failing Bucky on every level.

At six-ten a.m he tried to force the captain mask over his face and stand by Fury’s side with confidence as they ran over the stats from Thursday’s meet. But it felt like more of a lie than usual. The mask didn’t fit anymore and Steve could feel it cutting deeply into his cheeks. Bucky was sitting at the end of the bench next to Scott who was enthusiastically whispering in his ear.  But Bucky wasn’t listening to Scott, he was staring at Steve and seeing right through his bullshit. Bucky could see him, see right through him, and he saw that something was wrong.

While they were running the individuals, Bucky was kicking everyone’s ass as usual. Steve felt self-conscious as he stupidly tried to hide the pride he felt watching him glide effortlessly through the water. But at six-twenty-three a.m. he lost his cowardly focus and grinned as Bucky hit the wall a full three seconds before Charlie in the two-hundred meter freestyle. Brock loudly cleared his throat and scoffed. With his distorted nose and the purple bruising surrounding his dark brown eyes he looked even more vicious than usual. Shit.

It was hard to believe that he and Brock used to be good friends. In ninth grade they bonded over life with powerful asshole fathers that held great influence in the city, although Brock’s was admittedly in charge of a large chunk of New York’s underworld. It was a well known, but little discussed fact, that Carlisle Rumlow was a good old-fashioned violent mob boss that demanded only the best for his eldest son. Rollins and Castle’s families also had rumored ties to the Rumlow empire, and all three families had the highest expectations for their sons’ education at Eaton. Over the years countless fights and a pattern of brutal bullying had been swept under the rug and Steve was absolutely positive that Carlisle had everything to do the special level of tolerance for Brock’s actions.

It was sad, because when Steve first met him freshman year he was cool. Sure, he was always a hot head, and always had a huge mouth, but he was a great swimmer and they got along well enough. Brock was there when Steve got drunk for the first time, and helped him celebrate when he made team captain, and they always teamed up to kick Sam and Tony’s ass at two-on-two basketball. But as they’ve gotten older he’s gotten angrier, and meaner, and this year he actually seemed dangerous; like a sharp metal wire that’s been coiled up to the breaking point. Steve tried to talk to him in the kitchen at the party, to smooth over the suspension, but when Brock clanked his beer bottle against Steve’s and said, ‘don’t worry about it man’, Steve got the unsettling feeling that he’d narrowed his target even more firmly onto Bucky’s back.

So as Bucky swam he tried not to smile, and act natural, which was an oxymoron. He felt like smiling! For once he actually _felt like smiling_! But he didn’t. Steve’s times were off, Sam kept looking at him funny, he felt like a piece of shit, and to top it all off Fury sent everyone else to the locker room but called Steve into his office to bitch about his shitty times and make another pointless inquiry about his bruised ribs and the fading purple around his eyes. So at seven-ten a.m. Steve gave Fury another ridiculous excuse and added yet another lie to his cowardly pile. Fury kicked him out of his office with obvious concern and disappointment.

Brock was waiting for him, leaning up against the wall around the corner from Fury’s door waiting to ambush him. Mother fucker, he did not need this shit! He didn’t need _any_ of this fucking shit! He was fucking done even before that vulture walked right up behind Steve’s shoulder and snarled, “you think I don’t know Rogers?”

The power he felt when he broke Brock’s nose came flooding back to him, and it was a welcome relief from the emotional roller coaster he’d been riding since one p.m yesterday. Steve saw the blood trail across Tony’s carpet and wanted to make it longer, so he stopped short and whipped around to face him, “ _What_ do you know Brock? That I broke your nose? That’s pretty fucking obvious!”

Brock took a step closer and Steve could actually feel his hot breath. “Ha, cute, real cute. You think I don’t know the real reason you squealed to Fury and got me suspended? That I don’t know the real reason you sucker punched me at the party? I know.”

“You think I care?” Steve didn’t budge.

“Yeah,” he licked his lips and Steve felt him circling in for a landing, “I do. I think you’re a fuckin’ chicken and you’re gonna try to hide the fact that you’re a dirty fucking faggot, just like you try to hide the fact that you let your step-dad kick your ass on the regular.” He curled his lip and laughed something evil.

Steve honestly couldn’t believe the hate spewing from Brock’s mouth and he wanted nothing to do with it. “What the hell happened to you?” Steve started backing up toward the locker room door and actually felt a touch of pity. “I don’t care what you think you know, but you need to stay the hell away from me and stay the hell away from Bucky!”

Brock sauntered backwards two steps and spread his arms wide at Steve. “Oh there he is, the Captain defending his whore.”

Steve felt sick. “Fuck you Rumlow! I’m done with you. Done! Keep it up and I’ll make sure you’re kicked off the team. Permanently!” Steve slammed open the door to the locker room and it smashed against the wall, another seismic shift in his already unstable ground. God, what a fucking mess.

His hands were shaking when he turned the corner and saw Bucky and Scott drying off from the shower and laughing. Bucky looked so happy, and he wanted so badly to keep that protective bubble around him so Steve stayed away; the tremors shaking his core would do nothing except destroy that smile with their vibration.

Sam elbowed him as he opened his locker, “Hey man, might wanna watch the staring if you’re trying to keep this on the down low.”

Yeah, he was keeping it on the down low all right. So down low that he hadn’t even said a single word to Bucky the entire morning. It was seven-eighteen a.m and he was such a fucking coward that he hadn’t even said ‘hi’ to his boyfriend. Steve roughly tugged his burgundy henley over his wet hair and turned to Sam, “I’m worried.”

“About?”

“Everything.”

Sam put his strong hand on Steve’s shoulder and softly said, “Steve, you’re gonna be ok. You’ve found someone that makes you happy and I don’t think you should be worried about that. It’s a good thing man.” He clapped Steve on the back and said, “hey, aren’t you supposed to talk to Mr. Hanson this morning?”

Fuck! Perfect. Yet another thing to add to his ever growing tower of shit. He felt like crying, and running, and screaming, but all he did is quietly say, “I totally forgot.”

He couldn’t just leave without talking to Bucky. He needed to stop freaking out! He needed to walk over there and give him his poem, to make him understand. He needed to stop freaking out! He felt Brock watching him. He needed to stop freaking out! Breathe dammit....breathe! Stop freaking out! Breathe! Breathe...His feet somehow started taking the steps towards Bucky, like he was in a tunnel, and when his grey vans stopped at the end he zeroed in on the Greek toes.

“Steve?”

Bucky’s voice...could he just drown in it? When he finally got the guts to look up at him he was snapping and buckling leather cuffs up his left arm, stacking them in concentric rings. He counted them and there were eight. He had every intention of pulling out his sketchbook to rip out the page, but he didn’t. He undeservingly leaned against the locker in front of vibrance and vulnerability and all he said was, “See you at lunch?”

Bucky blinked and Steve saw his jaw set; his mandible flexing at the point of connection. “Yeah, of course”. The long pause that followed contained a challenge that Steve didn’t quite understand. “Hey Stevie, snap this for me?” He held out a red leather cuff, letting the ninth ring dangle sinfully in the space between them. “I can never get this one.”

Steve hesitated. He thought about how easily he touched Bucky’s arms to pull off the glowing bracelets with total organic confidence, and how he held his wrists so strongly against the gold bed, but now, at seven-twenty-one a.m. he hesitated. Only a coward would hesitate when been presented with such a pure offering. He should have grabbed the red leather and snapped it around Bucky easily, but he didn’t.

Bucky nodded, laughed dryly, then flung the red leather strip into his backpack; another piece of color ripped from Steve’s grasp because he was afraid of the final circle.

“Don’t worry about it _Steve_ , I’ll have Daisy help me. No reason to deviate from the norm, right? See ya at lunch.”

Bucky actually turned his back on him and started yanking pants and socks out of his locker and it was devastating. Steve just stood there like an idiot, feeling the weight of the sketchbook in his backpack. He knew he was fucking up, but he _had_ to talk to Mr. Hanson or he wasn’t going to get an extension on his paper, which he absolutely needed after missing Friday. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck! He had no choice but to mutter, “shit, dammit. Ok, um, lunch,” to Bucky’s back and rush out of the room. He should have stayed. But he didn’t.

The morning had dragged, with every horrible possibility cycling endlessly through his thoughts. Making it even worse was Peggy continuously winking at him, and Tony pretending to fuck everything: the stairwell, the potted plant, the drinking fountain, the trashcan, and even poor Scott. Then, to top things off, Clint stomped his heavy boots right up to him after second hour, wearing his jingling Mad Max leather jacket with his mohawk pulled tightly into some sort of viking braid. He looked more severe than usual.

“Rogers,” he announced, “we need to talk.” Clint clapped him roughly on the back. “Roof. After school. Come alone.”

Well that didn’t sound ominous or anything. As he stomped away, the giant Misfit’s skull on the back of his jacket staring back at Steve, he felt even more unsteady; the vertigo of sharply tipping from side to side making him queasy.

When the bell for lunch finally rang he wanted to run to the cafeteria so he could fix everything. To somehow travel back in time and snap that red leather circle around Bucky’s arm a thousand times...to willingly allow himself to freeze, his outstretched arm creaking to an icy halt as he presented the poem. Because Bucky Barnes deserves all the poetry.

But it all crashed back down the second Steve walked through the double doors and the jagged black faultlines spidering through the room were so obvious. Of course Bucky was still sitting at his table in the corner with his back towards Steve. Of course Daisy was whispering something in his ear and of course Clint was stealing kettle chips off his tray. Of course everyone on Team Rogers was in their designated seats by the windows. Of course Natasha was talking to the dance kids in the north corner. Of course TJ was holding court with the other angry brooding kids on the south end. Even Sharon was still sitting in her designated spot next to Steve’s empty seat, as if she were powerless to move unless it was dictated by a higher power. _Nothing_ was different except him! The veil had been lifted and he could see the cracks so clearly now. The floor rumbled and Steve saw the chasm shift, a great black rift opening up right between his feet. He should move. But he couldn’t.

Steve felt like a dog, stuck between two feuding owners at either end of a crumbling sidewalk, each one desperately calling his name. Why did he think they could just play it cool? How delusional was that!? What was he supposed to do? Just stroll over and sit with Bucky? Or just ask Bucky to sit with him? If it got back to Alexander that he didn’t have a date to the dance, how long would it take for it to get back to him that he was gay if he just waltzed right up to Bucky Barnes and sat with him in front of everyone? The sketchbook felt even heavier on his back and he couldn’t move. He just stood there, holding his tray with blackened salmon, angel hair pasta and grilled asparagus right in the center of the crowded room like an idiot.

“Do you need me to save the day Captain Confused? You look real lost here and people are starting to stare.” Tony was suddenly in front of him oddly wearing a black Daft Punk shirt under a blue and black checkered suit jacket and holding a cappuccino.

Steve recognized...“Hey! Is that Bucky’s shirt?”

“Yeah, he gave it to me right after I sucked his dick.” Tony smiled a huge grin and clicked his tongue, waiting for Steve’s reaction. His expression must have been impressive from Tony’s point of view because he backpedaled. “Oh my god Steve, I’m fucking with you. I found it in the den of sin after you left. Remember, I loaned him clothes? You’re such a drama queen.”

“What?”

“Ok, you’re obviously malfunctioning in a way that even my genius intellect can’t fix. I’m gonna to be your hero, like Batman but way cooler. Come over here sweet broken robot, let me help.” Tony steered him towards the windows and even further away from Bucky.

“Attention! The great Wizard of Oz, that’s me by the way, is making a change to the seating chart. It’s getting so boring, and boring is the worst. There’s some new blood in Oz that raged in a very impressive way at my party, and since Mr. Rumlow and his gang of merry men have chosen not to join us today, we have room to spare.” Tony dramatically gestured to the three empty seats at the end of the long table. “OK, it’s time to play musical chairs and everyone _will_ listen because I’m the great Wizard. Ezra! Sing something!” He banged his fist dramatically on the end of the table.

“Stop banging your hand near me Tony!” Ezra yelled.

“Whatever, if my new friend Adam Lambert was over here he’d sing! Parker!” Tony walked around and actually grabbed Peter’s tray, shoving it so it slid perfectly down three seats to the end. “Come on down, the price is right and you’ve won this special showcase. C’mon, slip and slide your tiny ass down here.” He clapped his hands as Peter actually moved. “Good! Now Rhodes, Banner, follow suit. Don’t make me move your trays!”

Steve watched in shock as they all actually moved; like puppets on a string. Tony sidestepped behind Sharon and patted the shoulders of her little mint green cardigan. “Now Sharon darling, I’m moving you altogether, because the romance is dead. Sorry. But fear not, it’s an upgrade to the land of estrogen and boobs. You get to move back to table number two by everyone’s favorite Brit; my darling Peggy.”

“Tony, that’s very rude. Stop being such an insensitive ass!” Peggy scoffed and Steve remembered why he liked her; no nonsense and brutally honest.

“It’s fine Peggy,” Sharon glanced right into Steve’s eyes and he felt like even more of an asshole, “I’d rather sit with you and Pepper anyway.”

“Grand! Grand!” The Wizard marched over to Steve, who was still awkwardly standing with his salmon, “C’mon Cap, you get to keep your precious window seat.” Tony crowded him until he stumbled towards his designated spot. “Sit. I’ve got this handled.”

All eyes at the table kept flipping between Steve and Tony as The Wizard pranced across the chasm towards Bucky’s table. Steve’s brain slowly came back online as he realized what Tony was doing. The meaning of the four empty seats next to him came into focus and Steve snapped his head up to Sam and Ezra. Sam looked concerned but Ezra was chuckling as he said, “shit, things are about to get crazy.”

Steve’s heart was throbbing his throat as he watched Tony sneak up behind Bucky and poke him in the ribs. He startled and yelled ‘what the fuck Stark!?’ loud enough to echo across the room. Steve’s lungs seized and he couldn’t breath as Clint stood up and took a step towards Tony before shooting Steve an angry look. He felt the room start to shift as Skinner looked at The Wizard over his glasses, and nauseous as Daisy scrunched up her pretty face. But then Tony started gesturing at Steve, and towards the empty seats, and somehow they all started laughing. Steve watched in shock as even stoic Skinner cracked a smile and Daisy started packing up her lunchbox before they actually followed the leader across the rift. Steve could feel Clint staring at him as he whispered something to Bucky before grabbing his tray and following Skinner.

Then it happened. Bucky Barnes stood up, straightened his shoulders and followed after Clint. His hair was falling into his eyes and he was wearing the most ridiculous Rainbow Connection Kermit the Frog t-shirt and he just walked right across the divide while everyone stared. Steve saw through the false confidence Bucky was displaying, like the brilliant feathers of a colorful peacock, and Steve remembered the feeling of his naked skin sliding against him in a perfect rhythm. He remembered the feeling of waking up covered in plastic rings and memorizing the look of mischief on Bucky’s beautiful face. He remembered promising that he would never hide him, but here he was, hiding every true thing he was feeling.

Tony’s voice belted out across the two long rectangular tables. “Here we are shiny happy people! I know it’s been a long trip down the yellow brick road and everyone must be tired from those heavenly poppies, so go ahead and join us in the land of Oz. Fellow genius, you get the smart guy spot next to your fellow brainiac Bruce, whose intellect is rivaled by only mine. Daisy, I barely know you, but that shall change. The next seat is yours, directly across from the hilarious and truly clueless Scott. Sid Vicious,” Tony pointedly ignored the unamused look on Clint’s face, “I know you can’t be far from Nancy so pop a squat right there! That right across from you is Ezra. I think you will be bestest friends, despite your scary hair and his perpetual hangover.

“God Tony,” Ezra rolled his eyes, “shut up.”

“Hi, I’m Scott!” Scott said to nobody in particular, or maybe to everyone.

“And last but certainly not least,” Tony motioned to the final empty seat and Steve’s heart was beating a million miles per hour. Bucky was standing five feet in front of him, looking nervous as hell, and Steve was having a perfectly timed panic attack about sitting next to him at lunch! If this got around school before he was ready, and it got back to Alexander, and fucking Brock! Dammit Tony, they weren’t ready. Steve wasn’t ready! He had a plan. He had a fucking plan! He tried to shake out the numbness in his fingers as Tony continued, “This spot is for you Richard Simmons, the very exclusive seat next to our Captain is all yours.”

Steve’s ears started ringing but he managed to hear Sam say, “hey Bucky, welcome man.”

“Tada, have a seat! Everyone talk and be merry. We are united!” Tony walked around to his spot across from Steve started shoving sushi from his weird little box into his mouth.

And Bucky just stood there.

He just stood there holding his tray, with the chocolate milk that had three straws sticking out the top and the mess of spilled Kettle Chips and the half eaten turkey sandwich on white bread, and he looked like he wanted to bolt. Steve noticed the red cuff was snapped tightly around his arm in the very top spot and he thought of his failure. He imagined how Bucky must have felt asking Daisy to snap it, and he pictured Bucky always associating that piece of leather with Steve’s hesitation. Steve felt embarrassed looking up into Bucky’s eyes and he still couldn’t catch his breath. What the hell was wrong with him!? He felt everyone’s eyes boring into him, waiting, and he was hyperventilating.

“I get it Steve,” Bucky whispered, “this wasn’t part of the deal.”

Clint obviously heard what Bucky said because he glared at Steve and it was pretty obvious that he was about to get punched. Clint was going to clock him with all those silver rings just like he clocked Brock and he deserved it. This was not what was supposed to be happening. This was all wrong! It was happening so fast and he...

“You gotta be fuckin’ kidding me man,” Clint snarled under his breath.

Bucky actually took a step backwards and whispered, “I’m just gonna go…” as Clint started to stand up.

Too fast. Too fast...

Daisy reached out her delicate hand and wrapped it around Bucky’s leather covered wrist and whispered, “oh, honey.”

Too fast...

“Oh shit,” Sam said quietly, “Steve. Steve, c’mon man.”

Too fast...

“Steve,” Tony leaned forward in a rare moment of complete sincerity, “Steve, snap out of it.”

Too fast...

Skinner slammed his laptop closed and Daisy started shoving her food back into her Peppermint Patty lunchbox and Bucky took another step away.

“Stop.”

Steve heard himself say it from somewhere distant but he couldn’t make himself connect. Everyone froze in place, and Steve could almost hear Clint’s knuckles cracking. “Please, just…” Steve tried to breath and to make Bucky understand with his eyes. He was just scared and he wanted to cry and he wanted to climb into his space helmet and make it all go away.

“Wow, this is _way_ more drama that Oz needs right now boys,” Tony joked with underlying concern. “C’mon Dorothy, Steve the Good Witch wants you to have a seat, she’s just a little shy.” Tony leaned forward and slapped Steve lightly on the cheek. “I mean look blondie, this un-cowardly punk rock lion is gonna kick your ass if you don’t throw down the welcome mat.”

Goddamn Tony and his big brown eyes, hiding his worry in a joke, because now he felt like he was trapped in that witch’s giant floating bubble and he couldn’t pop it. Deep breath in. Deep breath in...there was no air in here! Breath...Hold it. Hold it dammit!

“Yes,” he managed to squeak out. God, everyone else was being so cool and he was completely outing himself with a panic attack.

“Yes what?” Clint was standing at full height now.

Pop the bubble. Pop the bubble. “Yes, I want you here.”

“You want who here?” The tone in Clint’s voice proved that Bucky was right. Clint loved him and Steve was ashamed that he was falling so short of that standard right now. He had to fix it. Fix it! The bubble popped.

“I want Bucky here.”

“Jesus Christ, this is better than a Telenovela,” Ezra mumbled around a biscotti.

Steve felt the eyes, and he saw the amusement in Peggy’s, and the pain in Sharon’s, and the confusion in Scott’s, and the glee in Ezra’s, and the concern in Sam and Tony’s, but he’d popped the bubble and he needed to stop messing everything up! So he looked each one of them right in the eye, holding each pair for a beat before he finally sucked in a deep breath of fresh air. “I want Bucky to sit here.”

“Thank fucking god! Dorothy sit your ass down, welcome to the cool table,” Tony said before shoving a california roll into his mouth.

After the un-cowardly lion put away his claws and stole two stalks of grilled asparagus off Steve’s plate, and Skinner started talking to Bruce about some new project, and Daisy pulled the Little Debbie Zebra Cakes back out of her tiny metal box, and Tony the manic Wizard started talking to Sam about the Tribeca adventure, Steve pushed his cold salmon towards the window and touched his hand to the empty seat.

“Please Bucky.”

There was a horrible pause before Bucky tentatively stepped forward and lowered his messy tray down into the empty space with uncertainty still marring his features. Steve reached his hand up and let it glance across Bucky’s knuckles, before looking down at Bucky’s baby blue converse and whispering under his breath, “please.”

One purple stained shoe moved under the table and he managed to looked up just as Bucky lowered himself into his new seat. The bell was about to ring and Steve hadn’t eaten a single bite. But it didn’t matter because Bucky was staring at him, completely still, and he knew he fucked up. At eleven-twenty five a.m he let Bucky down...again. God, he was so sorry. So, so so sorry. He let his hand drift under the table to rest on Bucky’s thigh, feeling the rips and tears and the hand sewn stitches holding it all together.

“Steve, I shouldn’t have come over…”

“I’m sorry.” Steve just wanted things to be simple and it was such a mess.

Bucky looked genuinely confused and shifted his leg under Steve’s hand so his index finger slipped underneath some loose stitches. “What?”

“I’m sorry... I panicked, I’m panicking, but I want you here. I want you here more than anything. I just...some shit happened...Buck, I’m just, I’m just so sorry.” Steve squeezed Bucky’s leg, allowing the tip of his finger to touch his skin, and flashed back to that first confusing night in the truck when Bucky had done the same. He hoped his touch was as comforting, but he knew it wasn’t.

The bell rang and everyone jumped to their feet, but neither Bucky or Steve flinched. There were no cherished button eyes, no soft fur hugs, no glowing rings, and the green vines had retracted into the jungle because Steve’s hand on Bucky’s thigh was cowardly. He was polluting that first perfect memory with his weakness. Steve’s fingers were touching him under the table, out of view, when Bucky had the nerve to walk right over here in front of everyone. God, he was an asshole. He pressed his finger further into the rip. “I’m sorry.”

And this time Steve could tell Bucky almost believed him. The cafeteria was almost empty so it wasn’t as brave as it should have been, but Steve leaned forward and kissed Bucky, pulling his face towards him with a gentle tug. It was quick, but Steve tried to convey every emotion he was feeling before he pulled back a fraction of an inch to whisper, “I’m sorry Buck, I’ll do better, I swear.”

“Excuse me gentlemen,” Mrs. Hodge the lunch monitor cleared her throat, “don’t you two have someplace to be?”

Steve jumped and quickly let go of Bucky’s cheek, “Yes, um, sorry Mrs. Hodge, we were just leaving.”

Steve stood up and he wanted to reach his hand out to Bucky, but he didn’t because Mrs. Hodge was staring him down with judgemental eyes. Instead he just awkwardly waited for Bucky to stand up then silently walked with him through the now empty room, its cracks still visible, and out into the hall.

“Steve....” Bucky started but the late bell interrupted his sentence. After the tones echoed down the brick hallway he didn’t continue.

“So, suits tomorrow?” Steve said pathetically. God they needed to talk right now! They needed to talk after school! They needed to talk on the phone! But Bucky was grounded and he was so sorry and he just wanted to fix it. This was all off! He didn’t know how to make Bucky feel better in two seconds...one kiss in an empty room wasn’t anything close to enough, so he just said something else horrible. “Right after school?”

“Sure Steve,” Bucky said with no emotion.

He wanted nothing more than to pull Bucky into a tight hug to try to fix it all; to stitch together the tear he so carelessly created, but Sharon came out of the bathroom and took her sweet time walking past them. Of course she did. So instead of making things better Steve made everything worse by saying, “ok, I’ll see you later.”

Bucky huffed out a breath and actually chuckled before smiling something fake. It was eleven- thirty-three a.m. when Bucky turned his back for the second time and Steve should have called out to him. But he didn’t.

Bucky Barnes walked away from him, the green of his Kermit shirt and the black of his torn pants reminding Steve of melted finger paint and smeared eyeliner; but instead of spreading onto his fingers in warm kinetic rivers they were quickly walking away, and Steve felt totally alone.

*****

 

END NOTE/SPECIAL TREAT: Before I started this fic I drew a series of The Avengers as their teen punk versions. This is my Tony, which is pretty much how I picture him in the story (minus the tats, piercings and rings). But I do imagine him with AWESOME hair and the coolest suits ever! 

                                                                            

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was very emotional for me and it went in a much darker direction than I originally intended. I work with young people, and a teen that I've known since he was five lost his life to suicide last weekend. This chapter is dedicated to David. I hope that it can help spread awareness that depression and anxiety can be crippling and that we all need to have a safe person to reach out to if we are struggling. Add figuring out your gender or sexuality to the mix and it can be completely overwhelming. So lets all support one another, spread awareness and acceptance, and make the world a safer place for LGBTQ teens and adults. Hugs to you all.
> 
> I'll put the 'Pop culture list' for this chapter up when I post chapter 10.
> 
> One thing I should explain, is the use of the nine circles of hell. These are from Dante's 'Inferno" which is the first part of the 14th century poem 'Divine Comedy'. 
> 
> And here's this chapter's trivia question: Why is it funny that I referenced the film 'Less than Zero' when Tony was making fun of TJ for being high? Be the first to comment the correct answer and I will reward you with a fictional dozen of delicious fresh donuts!
> 
> Please keep the comments and kudos coming. I LOVE THEM! And visit me on Tumblr at lucidnancyboy and on Instagram at JessieLucidArt. Smooches :)


	10. The Headphone Splitter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Am I allowed to give you lovely readers an assignment? I'm giving you an assignment. Lol. There is a part at the end of this chapter where the emotional punch is written to correlate with a song. If you really want the full impact, cue up the song "Feel" by Sleeping With Sirens and push play when Steve pushes the button on the Walkman. The whole scene is paced to the song so you can read along as it plays. I really think you will love it :).

                                                                  

 

Clint had hope for Steve. Not at first, for obvious reasons, but after he manned up and punched Rumlow in the face Saturday night he thought, ‘maybe this guy could be good enough to deserve Bucky after all’. He had hope, he really did, but then today happened. Now Clint was nothing but pissed.

When he and Skinner tracked Bucky down by his locker after fourth hour the look on his face said it all. Clint knew that face; he knew it intimately. The last time he’d seen that expression Bucky was frozen half an inch in front of his face, straddling his lap and crumbling after Clint viciously ripped his heart out of his chest. He’d never forgiven himself for doing that to Bucky and he certainly wasn’t gonna sit back and let Steve Rogers do the same fucking thing! But screw Steve Rogers! He was worse! He slept with Bucky for christ’s sake, and then had the nerve to treat him like that! Clint at least gave a shit when he put that look on Bucky’s face; that he fucked up Bucky like he did! If he found out that Rogers was just using Bucky for kicks, swear to god he was gonna use him for target practice. Twelve arrows right through the center of his heart! Everyone knew Clint never missed.

Digging around in the pocket of his leather jacket Clint found what he was looking for. He flipped open his zippo with his left hand, lighting it in one smooth motion as he snapped the lid back and fired up a joint. He tossed another beat up plastic lawn chair in front of his own, interrogation style, then sat down to wait. You can’t get more clear than ‘meet me after school on the roof’, so if Steve didn’t get his stuck-up chicken shit ass up on this roof in the next five goddamn minutes Clint was gonna annihilate him. Seriously. He pictured talking to the cops; ‘no officer, the last I saw him he was driving away in his hundred-thousand dollar truck. Uh, yeah, he’ll be missed. I miss that posh little bastard already’.

The cracked screen on his phone read two-forty; ten minutes past the bell. He let his chair tip back dangerously as he took a huge hit and stared up at the cloud covered sky. Bucky was stuck in the office with his dad on total lockdown. For what? An asshole jock who fucks him when he’s drunk then basically ignores him when he gets in front of his friends? Not gonna fly. He let the chair fall back onto all fours and slammed his studded wrists against the armrest. He was pissed! Daisy was pissed. Skinner was pissed. Nat was pissed. To be honest, even Stark and Wilson seemed pissed! Score one for those two.

He pulled another long hit and listened to the crackling of the embers while he tried to figure out how the hell he was gonna pull Bucky through this one. For some reason he didn’t think shit loads of Superman Ice Cream were gonna cut it this time. Why the hell couldn’t Bucky just get a win? Clint wished every damn day that he could have been what Bucky wanted him to be. That he could have given him the farmhouse and the chickens and the white picket fence and the adopted cute rugrats...actually no, Bucky would hate that. He shook his head and chuckled because he would hate that too. Not their style. No, he wished that he could have simply loved him the way Bucky wanted him to. But he didn’t, and he loved him too much to let it continue. Jesus. He rubbed his hand over his forehead and back along his slicked back hair. Propping up his oxblood boots on the empty chair he stared at the toes that Bucky had carefully wrapped in silver duct tape over the summer. They were mocking him and he scoffed at himself as much as he scoffed at Steve Rogers. This asshole wasn’t gonna show. It was un-fucking-believable but this asshole wasn’t gonna show!

Then, just as he was giving up, he heard it; the rusty metal ladder shaking in its loose brackets. Clint held his breath until the asshole crawled up over the edge. About fucking time! He let his boots drop onto the roof and flippantly gestured to the empty chair. He wished he had one of those bright lights they use in police interrogations so he could shine the hot beam right in Steve’s face and shake him the fuck down. But then Steve Rogers sat across from him, sighed heavily and said something that took Clint completely by surprise.

“I fucked up.”

What? Clint tried to stay tough, bad cop style, so he snapped, “damn right you did!” But inside he was thinking ‘what the fuck’? That was _not_ what he expecting to come out of Steve Rogers mouth! Here he was, totally planning on ripping this dude a new asshole, but he leads with ‘I fucked up’? Clint didn’t know what to do with that, so he just pressed his back against his plastic chair and nodded Godfather style while taking another long drag. Then, to stall, he took another one.

“Wanna hit?” he asked as he coughed out the smoke. Now the dude looked like he was about to cry.

“No. But thanks.”

Steve dropped his face into his hands and started rubbing his forehead and holy fuck, this felt so damn familiar! Did Clint have to buy this dude ice cream too? Was he the neighborhood ice cream man who drove his janky truck around the halls of Eaton selling ice cream cones to sad, depressed gay guys? This was beyond fucked up.

“So”, Clint just dove in, imagining throwing handfuls of melting vanilla ice cream right in Rogers’ face, “you fucked up?”

Steve looked so upset that Clint thought he might puke or something, which made him instantly feel bad for wanting to obliterate him with melting dairy. There was a very long awkward silence before Rogers finally started talking, and talking, and talking. He just kept going; stumbling over his words and spilling the beans like they’d been best friends since second grade.

“I just want to travel back in time and start this entire horrific day over again. I did every single part of this day wrong. All of it! Nothing right! Now Bucky’s mad at me and I don’t know how to fix it. He just walked away from me like I made him sick and I’m afraid I can’t fix it because I can’t even see him, or call him, and I just want to tell him I’m so sorry! I’m so fucking sorry! I just should have told him about the awful shit that happened but I didn’t have time to tell him, and I just panicked. I had a fucking panic attack at lunch and I just…”

“Hey,” Clint interrupted, because the guy was not even breathing and he looked completely devastated. He scooched his chair forward because apparently he was the gay therapist on call. “Dude, Steve, slow down ok? Get ready, I’m gonna spit some hardcore truth at you right now.” He paused to make sure the poor guy was dragging in some oxygen. “I had every intention of nailing you with the most serious shovel talk known to man, _and_ kicking your ass for the way you treated Bucky today, but dude, this is _not_ what I thought it was.”

Steve squeezed his jaw tight and said, “what did you think it was?”

“Um, you fucking my best friend then ditching him like a total prick.” Clint pictured Bucky’s face when he talked about Steve blowing him off at practice and he felt the anger swelling back up.

“God no! No! Is that what Bucky thinks? No, god no!” He actually started crying and Clint felt so conflicted. Dump ice cream on his head? Shoot him full of arrows? Give him a hug? Steve shook his head several times before looking him right in the eye. “Clint, I would _never_ do something like that!”

He let himself drift off for a second and hit his joint. He knew he had to explain himself, to tell Steve why treating Bucky like this wasn’t an option, but all he could manage was a long pause because how the fuck was he supposed to explain this to Steve? Fuck. There was no way around it. Even though it sucked he couldn’t be a pussy, so he leaned forward sharply and blurted it right into Rogers’ weepy face. “Good, because Bucky couldn’t handle that. Not after everything Steve. Not after what I did to...”

“He told me,” Steve interrupted.

“Oh really?” Clint was taken aback because Bucky _never_ talked about it. They _never_ mentioned it after that night. His shock led quickly to anger and he forcefully crushed the end of his joint onto the silver air conditioner next to Steve’s head before snarling, “ _What_ did he tell you? That I’m an asshole too?”

“No,” Steve’s voice was soft and sad and he held his ground. Looking directly into Clint’s eyes he whispered, “he told me something else.”

Well fuck. Clint chuckled uncomfortably because Bucky had never even told _him_ . Not with words. But Clint _knew_. He knew by the way Bucky had sucked on his neck that night and let his tongue slip underneath his chain. He knew by the way Bucky carefully unbuttoned his shirt and licked across his chest, gently tugging on the silver piercings with his teeth. He knew by the passionate way Bucky had blown him that night. And he definitely knew when Bucky straddled his lap and leaned in for that kiss that Clint knew he couldn’t return.

This asshole was gonna make him cry too. Fuck fuck fuck. Clint slid the chair back about a foot and it made a horrible scraping sound on the cold tar. What was he supposed to say to that? He took a regretful breath. “So you understand that I’m not gonna to let you use him? After what I did, you can’t...”

“Clint stop. He’s lucky to have you.”

And there it was. This wasn’t an interrogation or a shake down. Clint wasn’t ‘The Godfather’ or a super assassin with a bow and arrow. This was him realizing that Steve Rogers might be Bucky’s win after all, and that he’d been right to have hope.

The rattling sound of the ladder startled them both as Sam climbed over the edge.

“Oh fucking great, what about private don’t you get Wilson?” Clint hollered as Sam just strolled over, casual as can be. Couldn’t this dude see that he was busy getting all emotional with Steve Rogers? Jesus christ he didn’t need a fucking audience to watch him break every punk rock rule. Punks don’t cry, especially not with overgrown jocks on New York City rooftops!

“Listen man, I saw Steve book up here after the bell and to be honest, when he didn’t come back down I was concerned.” Sam walked around to stand next to their chairs and took a good long look before he said, “and from the looks of it, rightfully so.”

Steve looked all weepy _again_ so Clint leaned back _again_ and got ready for round two. He was gonna have to tag team this situation like The Hardy Boyz so he relit his joint and looked up at Sam with a fake smile. “Wanna hit?”

“Naw man, that’s cool.”

Clint just shrugged. More for him. He gestured somewhere behind him and rolled his eyes. “There’s another chair behind the chimney. Might as well pull it up and get in the ring with us.”

Sam did as he was told and joined their little therapy circle but nobody said anything. Dude climbs up here on his roof without an invitation and gets Rogers all weepy again and then just sits there? Just three dudes sittin’ in a circle bein’ all emotional. Fuck this shit! Clint blew smoke right in Sam’s face. “Fine, _I’ll_ start. Sam, we’ve established that Steve fucked up today, and some shit went down, and he was freaking out about it.” Clint pointedly left out the rest. “We hadn’t gotten to the specifics of the shit. So Steve, we’re all ears, what’s the shit?”

Steve laughed but it was not the funny variety. It was the fucked up variety; like the Joker or Vincent Price at the end of ‘Thriller’.

Sam put his hand on Steve’s knee and said, “Steve, I’m worried about you man. You seemed weird at practice, and lunch was...dude, I don’t even know what that was. Are you…”

“Are you regretting Bucky?” Clint interrupted, because despite all the bonding a few minutes ago Sam was right; this crap still wasn’t adding up. So he just got to the mother fucking point. Simple and to the fucking point, like everything in life should be!

Steve slowly shifted his eyes back and forth between them and the set to his jaw was intense. “No,” he said quietly and paused to swallow, “I’m regretting everything else.”

Clint gave Sam an emergency look that very clearly said, ‘I’m tagging you in bro’ and his spandex partner thankfully jumped right over the top rope to ask, “what do you mean Steve?”

Steve was clearly thinking, contemplating, and analyzing the situation with a lowered chin and pinched eyebrows. This dude really liked his dramatic pauses. Then, like someone blew up the Hoover Dam with a million pounds of TNT, he just let it go; every piece of shit spilling out in one giant wave and Clint was in no way prepared for the sewage that poured out of Steve Rogers’ mouth.

“I regret that my mom’s dead. I regret that my whole life since she died is a goddamned lie. I regret that I’m stuck living with a man who uses me as a prop to get good press and that I’m trapped in that steel and glass hellhole with him. I regret that I don’t bash his fucking skull in whenever he hits me, or shoves me, or punches me. I regret that I didn’t throw the entire pot of hot coffee into his awful fucking face when he burned me this morning…”

“Woah, woah, woah,” Clint interrupted, “who burned you?”

Steve jerked up the sleeve on his navy jacket and holy fuck his entire forearm and wrist were bright red and there were several white blisters in the center. The Joker laugh escaped again and he leapt up, violently knocking the chair over backwards. “My wonderful stepfather, of course. Like you don’t already know? Doesn’t everyone already know?”

Sam leapt up too and was obviously distraught. “How did I not see that this morning!?”

Steve was a wild animal as he backed himself up against the silver air conditioner, trapping himself between its steel panels and his WWE intervention tag team. He was gesturing wildly as he cackled, “maybe you didn’t notice because you were distracted by the giant yellow bruise on my ribs or maybe it was the fact that I still have two black eyes? Is the bruise on my back still there? Maybe you were too distracted by that one!? Or maybe you were distracted by my behavior at practice; that I was ‘acting weird’ as you succinctly put it?” Steve started pacing and Sam and Clint made a silent alliance to keep him contained. His volume was increasing substantially and his shouts were echoing across the roof. “Oh, and don’t forget the fact that Rumlow threatened me after practice. That was a nice little addition to my morning. But even better, was when he threatened Bucky! That was fucking amazing! So what was I supposed to do when Tony pulled you guys over to the lunch table in front of everyone, huh? Just kiss Bucky like I wanted to and announce that I’m gay in front of everyone? You think that wouldn’t get back to Alexander? You think that wouldn’t get back to Brock? I regret all of it! I regret all of it because it _all fucking sucks_!” Steve screamed that last part and Clint was way in over his head. Sam’s looked slightly less in over his head, but not by much.

“Steve,” Sam said softly, reaching his hand out and resting it strongly on his shoulder. “Steve, I’m glad you told us. Try to take a breath man.”

Clint needed the biggest ice cream scoop in the universe for this shit. He tried to sound as soothing as Sam when he said, “dude, if Bucky knew all that he wouldn’t be mad at you. I swear. He’d want to know Steve. You’ve just gotta tell him.”

Steve hit his head backwards on the metal and it made a loud reverberating bang. Clint thought about all the times Bucky had done the exact same thing over the years and he painfully remembered the sound of every single hit.

The frustration was making Steve’s voice shake and his nostrils flare as he shouted, “how!? He’s stuck in the office! I can’t call him. I can’t text him. I can't do anything to fix it!” He hit his head two more times, even louder, and Clint wanted so badly to slide his hand behind his Steve's head to cushion the blows; just like he did with Bucky. He kept right on yelling, “I want to tell Alexander to go fuck himself, that I don’t need him or his goddamned money and I’d rather be homeless than live more day of that fake fucking life with him. I want to get Brock kicked out of school because he’s dangerous. I want to get him as far away from Bucky as I possibly can! I want to charge into the office right fucking now and grab Bucky into the biggest hug and hold him for hours and tell him I’m sorry! I want to parade him down the hall in front of everyone because he’s the first thing, in fucking _years_ , that’s made me feel real! The first thing to make me feel hope. The first thing to remind me that I was raised to stand up for what’s right! But I fucking can’t!” He slammed his head one more time, so hard that a flock of pigeons launched off the building across the street and flew over their heads. Clint instinctively reached behind Steve’s back to move him away from the metal. He was breathing crazy. He looked crazy.

Sam nodded and grabbed the chair to put it back on it’s feet. “Steve.” Sam was talking in a very calm voice, like a good samaritan trying desperately to calm a frightened dog. “Sit back down, ok? We’re gonna figure this out.”

Suddenly Clint felt his fingers burning because the intense drama of Bucky’s shiny new, but obviously severely broken boyfriend’s meltdown made him forgot all about his joint. It had burned down to nothing in his fingers and it hurt! "Dammit! Ouch! Ouch!” He flung the roach to the ground and stomped it with his duct tape boot.

They were both staring at him with their eyebrows raised and Clint felt like it was his turn to tag in and say something. “Sorry, sorry! Ouch.” He shook his fingers. “Ok, um, helpful idea number one: I’ll text Nat and we’ll coordinate a time for you to text her phone so you can talk to Bucky tonight.”

“I wrote him a poem,” Steve muttered as he slumped into the chair.

What!? What? Clint felt like he was stuck in a giant pinball machine of emotions, just bouncing around from angry to sad, to happy to sappy, and now right into unbelievable. He couldn’t even pretend to go smoothly with this one. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

Steve tipped his head up at Clint and he looked so tired. “I wrote Bucky a poem and I wanted to give it to him today. But I didn’t. Can you give it to him?”

Sam shook his head with a very quick, yet subtle, ‘no fucking way’ which Clint agreed with one-thousand percent. Maybe this tag team partnership wasn’t half bad. “Hey Steve”, Clint tried to be gentle, “maybe stick with the texting for now? Um, poetry might be a bit intense. Just for now, you know, until Bucky hears all this.”

“You don’t think he’ll like it?”

Oh my god. Clint wanted to facepalm. “Bro, its not that. Just...let’s get him talking to you again. Because right now he’s not even planning on doing that.”

Poetry!? Was this guy for fucking real!? Clint wanted to fall on the ground and laugh hysterically because thirty minutes ago he thought Steve Rogers had used Bucky for a little sexual experimentation and a good fuck then dumped him like trash, but the reality was he was hiding out in some sad corner writing Bucky poetry. Poetry!

Thank god Sam interjected, “Steve, this is _way_ above my pay grade. This is way above Barton’s paygrade. This is way above Bucky’s paygrade. I want you to talk to us anytime man, anything, anytime, but you’ve gotta talk to someone else about this too. Like the counselor, or Fury or Mr. Barnes. For real man.”

“But I want Bucky to understand.” Steve still looked off kilter, but at least he was calming down.

Clint knew it was time for a plan; a step by step plan. “Steve, just slow your roll bro. Do some yoga breathing or something zen and peaceful like that. Let’s do this one step at a time. Step one: call my phone so I have your number. I’ll text you when I get a time from Nat.”

“Ok.”

“Step two,” Sam tagged in, “Go talk to someone before you leave. Fury or someone in the office.”

“I don’t like talking about this.”

Sam shook his head with authority, “Step two is not an option.”

Steve reluctantly nodded and Clint felt safe to move on to the very critical step three. He started walking towards the ladder. “C’mon my ride to the archery range is about to leave. We gotta finish this plan on the move.” Both of them actually followed after him so he continued, “step three: figure out step three and hold off on the poetry and sonnets and iambic pentameter until step three is complete.”

Steve actually chuckled a little as he climbed over the edge. “Ok.”

Clint stood at the top of the ladder and watched as Steve landed at the bottom next to the access door. It was really strange but he felt something like fondness for the guy. “I swear to god Steve. Don’t try to sneak that Shakespearean shit into my plan, I _will_ find out!”

The loud creak of the door stopped as Steve paused. “Hey Clint.”

“Yeah?”

“Thank you.”

As the heavy door swung shut behind them Clint took a minute to think before he stepped onto the ladder. He felt tired, and worried, and relieved, and shocked all at once. For christ’s sake _he_ needed someone to feed _him_ sympathetic ice cream! He let himself enjoy the possibility of that actually happening as he got out his phone to text Nat.

*****

 

Tony was in the middle of welding a huge iron joint with his superstar team of budding biomechanical engineers in their top secret workshop at MIT when he heard his phone. The first six notes of the National Anthem rang proudly from his pants.

“Yo, Laufeyson. Dig my phone out of my pocket.” The sparks were flying everywhere as Tony was muscling the torch across the long line of metal. He could feel his shoulder muscles straining as he centered his weight and knew he looked damn fine in this black tank top. Metal and fire and tank tops! He was a Scorpions’ video from nineteen eighty-something and that was so Aqua Net sexy. He was rockin’ someone like a hurricane!

“You want me to what?”

Oh, that British accent. Even when this guy wasn’t being a prick he still sounded like one. Just like his darling Peggy. Was he stereotyping an entire country as sounding prickish? Probably.  “Oh c’mon, Benedict Cumberbunt, just get up in there. It’s my Real American Hero calling.”

“I’m not reaching in…”

“Just do it!” Tony yelled as he lunged even deeper, because this corner was a bitch! Why had they planned this corner to be such an inaccessible, un-weldable bitch? He was blaming Baseball Hat for this one. “Hey! Baseball Hat! You need to redesign this corner because it’s horrible! You did a horrible job and I’m gonna send you back to the dark and unsuccessful undergrad basement if you don’t fix this bullshit!” He could see through the visor that Baseball Hat was desperately trying to hold the end of the pipe in place for Tony to weld it but he didn’t looked properly shamed. “Hey! Did you hear me!? Shame on you Baseball Hat! Making me do deep lunges with a fiery torch! You’ve got real nerve!”

The patriotic notes blasted from his pocket again as the sparks shot upwards in a dramatic arc. Tony appreciated the symbolism and sang ‘Ohhh say can you see’ as he cranked the torch at an angle to make it spark extra high. “C’mon Your Majesty! Just get it!”

“Oh for god’s sake, would you just shut up!” Tall, dark and British came up behind Tony and reached under the protective apron to yank the phone out of the front pocket of jeans which was soo soo satisfying. He held his lanky arm out towards Tony and sneered, “here!”

Tony was totally finished welding this stupidly engineered joint, fuck you Baseball Hat, but he just kept the sparks flying to see if he could get King Lear to serve him. He tried to flex his back muscles extra hard as he said, “I’m a little busy Crumpet. Can you just read it for me?”

Even under the thick visor, and through the exaggerated sparks, and despite the fact that Loki was now standing completely behind him, Tony could see the eye roll, and hear the dramatic sigh, and feel the aura of annoyance. Man, he _loved_ to pick on this guy. Loved it!

“Why is this person called Golden Retriever?”

He was actually gonna do it! He was actually gonna do it! Yay! Tony tried to hold back his glee when he answered, “if you saw him you’d totally understand. What does it say?”

“It says ‘Hi Tony. I need your help’.

Tony finally finished the joint, or finished pretending he hadn’t finished the joint and switched off the torch. He was internally celebrating his successful manipulation of The Queen of England as he flipped up the visor and took off the thick gloves. Loki was staring at his phone like it personally offended him, or it smelled bad, or had Chlamydia which were all hilarious. I mean not that Chlamydia was hilarious, well maybe it could be under the right circumstances. No, maybe not. Whatever. Tony clapped his hands together and said, “ok Wonder Kids deactivate! Everyone take five. Or ten. Actually make it fifteen. And you, Baseball Hat, you need to get me some Skittles! Welding your horrible joint affected my glucose levels. You made me feel hangry but I don’t like Snickers, so get me some mother fucking Skittles!”

Baseball Hat actually nodded like Tony just smacked his knuckles with a ruler and buzzed out of the workshop with Glasses, Curly Hair, and Short Guy. Short Guy was actually about an inch taller than Tony, but this was Tony’s workshop and Tony’s project so he could name the slightly taller guy Short Guy if he felt like it. Amazing what being rich and brilliant gets you in life. Skittles!

Tony turned around and Loki was staring at him with the most over-exaggerated bored expression and still holding his phone at arm’s length like it was a hunk of stinky cheese from France. This was such an awesome day! “Ok,” Tony demanded as he walked around the workbench, “text him back ‘I’m at your service’.

“I’m not texting anything. Take this, I’m not a servant.”

This was the reason Tony called Loki Laufeyson by an actual name. Not always _his_ name, but a well thought out name of some sort. Because not only did this dude not take any shit, he took no shit with serious style. Tony decided to just push it, push it real good, and whined, “but I’m so tired from all that manual labor. C’mon.”

“Absolutely not,” he said flippantly and dropped the phone unceremoniously onto the cluttered workbench. He moved towards the door and took on a very nasty tone, nastier than the usual. “And I don’t appreciate you taking a break to text your dog. We have a deadline to meet and I have better things to do.”

“Oh testy testy testy. Whatever LL Cool J, you sound like you need some Skittles too.”

Tall guy flipped him off as he waltzed out the workshop door. Yeah, Tony had mad respect for that black cat.

He snatched up his phone to look at the screen, his perfectly programmed soaring eagle gif playing patriotically beneath the message.

 

Golden Retriever: Hi Tony. I need your help.

Tony: I‘m @ ur service

Golden Retriever: Can you put a new headphone jack in an old walkman?

Tony: duh

Golden Retriever: Tonight?

Tony: double duh

Golden Retriever: Can I come over?

Tony: u rly always txt in complete sentences with proper punctuation huh?

Golden Retriever: Yes, I do. Can I come over?

Tony: hold ur horses…………..I’m thinking.

Tony:.....................

Tony:.....................

Golden Retriever: Oh my God Tony! Can I please come over?

Tony: You REALLY just wrote out ‘oh my God’! OMG! You’re such a nerd!

Golden Retriever: TONY!!!

Tony: ok. Yes u can come over. But only if u ask in text language

Golden Retriever: Sigh. can i come over?

Tony: not good enuff

Golden Retriever: can i come ovr

Tony: YES!!! C was that so hard? gotta wrap shit up here but i can meet u @ 6ish

Golden Retriever: thx

Tony: there’s hope 4 u yet!

 

  
That’s how Tony ended up with a very big golden retriever puppy sitting on his very impressive doorstep holding a little bag full of mysteries. He kicked at Steve’s leg as he hopped up the steps. “Why didn’t you go in?”

“I didn’t want to.”

“Steve.” Tony did not know what to say, because this involved feelings, and Tony didn’t do feelings. “I think you need a hug or something, but I don’t do hugs. So how about you come into my completely non-humble abode and let me engineer something super cool for you instead? It’s like a mechanical hug...with my brain.”

“Hey Tony…” Steve was still sitting on the steps looking up at him with moony eyes or starry eyes or nebula eyes or something equally space related and definitely disturbing.

“Would you just get up!? And stop looking at me like Ziggy Stardust! It’s freaking me out.”

Jarvis, his very favorite fatherly butler opened the door. He sized up Tony and Steve, implying with his British accented stare that they were idiots for randomly hanging out on the front steps for no good reason. Which, Tony had to concur, they were.

Finally Steve stood up, with his stupid navy blue jacket that looked runway amazing on him. It was Prada; winter twenty-sixteen collection. Tony could tell. Tall, blond and Prada started walking up the steps which was cool until he got really really close to Tony and said, “thanks for being such a good friend.”

Why!? Tony cried inside. Now the Golden Girls theme was gonna be stuck on loop in his brain for three weeks straight! It was starting right now! ‘Thank you for being a friend…’. Steve was still way too close to him and it was making Tony feel twitchy. “Ok, ok Rose, did Blanche spike your prune juice with vodka again?” Tony tried to back up through the door, which Jarvis was still very dutifully holding ajar. “Will you just come inside?”

Steve took one step forward which equalled three of Tony’s backwards steps and it happened so horrifically fast! Before he could assume the proper defensive position Steve hugged him. He was getting hugged! Too much hugging! Tony tried to wriggle out of it but Steve was strong and he was holding on really tight. Then Steve actually lifted him off the ground, which was so fucking humiliating, as he said, “you’re always there for me, even when it’s just to be a dick. You’re always there.”

“Please let me go.”

Super Rose set him back down but the old lady vice-like arms did not waiver. There was no escape for Tony as Betty White kept right on word vomiting all over him. “Tony, what you did today at lunch was really cool, and I’m sorry for freaking out about it. You’re always listening and doing things for me and I want you to know how much I appreciate you.”

“You still haven’t let me go.”

Steve finally un-clamped his giant arms. Oh sweet release. Oh god, he thought he was gonna die in there! He was gonna die before the eternal Betty White! Tony backed up into the house, past a very amused but highly professional Jarvis, and tried to put some distance in between himself and Mr. Poorly Written Hallmark Card.

“So, thank you Tony. I love you man.”

“Steve! Truly! Stop! Can I just fix this shit for you? Can you please just come inside so I can make myself a completely age-inappropriate cocktail? I think I’m gonna go for the Manhattan. Jarvis, pretend you didn’t hear that.”

“I’m aware you’re a seventeen-year-old functioning alcoholic sir,” Jarvis said stoically as he locked the door.

Tony belted out a laugh because that was a witty snappy little snippet! Ah, that is very true my good friend. So, will you make my drink then Jarvis? Vermouth, orange peels, extra cherries, extra whiskey on ice. Actually scratch the vermouth. Scratch the orange peels completely. Just ice, whiskey and cherries. Lots and lots of cherries!”

“I will not contribute to your ongoing delinquency sir,” he quipped as he walked into the parlor, “but you’ll find the extra jar of Maraschino Cherries on the bottom shelf of the chef’s refrigerator.”

The cherries were delicious and he ate about five straight out of the jar as he happily made his non-Manhattan Manhattan. He had to use a tall glass to fit all the extra cherries, nine but who was counting, over the shaved ice and double shot of whiskey. He topped off Steve’s Kiddie-Cocktail, that he totally didn’t ask for, with bubbling Sprite. He even added a little plastic sword stabbing through the cherry garnish because it was hilarious and Shirley Temple would totally approve. Man-drink and little-boy-drink in hand he took his favorite golden retriever to his fifth floor workshop to do what he does best; get drunk and build shit! Steve immediately parked himself at the huge drafting table, shoving Tony’s pencils and triangles and random tools out of his was so he could hunch over a teeny tiny piece of paper and draw teeny tiny little words and teeny tiny little pictures all over it. Tony made the piece-of-cake modifications on Steve’s little declaration of love or whatever it was and watched as his bestie shoved tremendous amounts of pizza into his mouth and Tony felt...like a nice guy.

*****

 

Natasha loved running her fingers through Bucky’s hair. Ever since he started growing it out in seventh grade she’d let her fingers dance through it when they were watching a movie, or gossiping in her room, or she’d reach up from the back seat to play with it when their dad was driving them around the city. Her fingers always seemed to find it, like an instinctive source of comfort. Over the years Bucky seemed to associate it with comfort too; putting his head in her lap when he was stressed-out or sad, or when someone was rude to him at school, or after a certain someone broke his heart. Bucky followed Natasha up to her room as soon as they got home from school and without any words she knew just what he needed. She didn’t know the whole story, only bits and pieces from Clint and Tony, but she knew it was bad.

Her neat dresser had a rose tinted glass bowl full of colorful elastic bands and another pink one that held delicate bobby pins that she used to pin back her hair for ballet. While she selected colors and grabbed her wide tooth comb she carefully watched Bucky through the oval mirror. He threw his gym bag onto her bed and yanked out his pineapple pajama pants as soon as he shut the door. It took him mere seconds to kick off his chucks and peel the black skinny jeans off his legs. She ran the comb back and forth across her palm, listening to the subtle clicks of the teeth as they caught on her skin, and just waited. He stripped off his Kermit the Frog shirt and threw it across the room like he was offended. She didn’t move when the green shirt crashed into her bedside lamp and knocked it over on the nightstand. There was no surprise when Bucky didn’t move to pick it up.

She gently allowed her brother to sandwich himself between her knees so she could easily start their tradition. He was only wearing his soft pineapple pants so she could see the strong lines of muscle running down his back. It was unbelievable how much Bucky had grown and changed in the past year, but no matter how big and strong he got, he still needed her. First, she just ran her thin fingers through the long wavy strands, loosening any knots and rubbing his scalp in soothing circles. The tension is his neck started to give way as she gently pulled the comb from the crown to the ends in long repetitive strokes. The measured movement synched with their breathing and she felt her own stress waning too. There was something about manipulating the strands into a loose french braid, then a classic french twist, then into a messy chignon that made everything seem so quiet. It took her to a different head-space that was impossible to find any other way. The precision required to comb Bucky’s hair into small sections before twisting them into tiny mini buns and securing them with a pattern of yellow and green bobby pins calmed her. Sometimes she wished they could just stay here.

They were watching season four of ‘Supernatural’, because Bucky had a serious thing for Dean and Castiel, and they still hadn’t said one word. There was no talking necessary when they were like this. They both understood when Bucky knocked over the lamp that Natasha would calmly pick it up. It was completely clear when Natasha peeled her socks off to expose her bruised and calloused feet, that Bucky would rub them for her. She knew as soon as Tony told her what happened that she’d need to run her fingers through his hair, because that’s what they did.

She remembers the first time she played with Bucky’s hair so clearly. It was the year they both turned eight and everyone at the orphanage was hungry that winter, the rooms were colder than normal, and there were less adults taking care of them. They didn’t understand the concept of economic collapse, because no one told them anything, and they were all feeling even more lost than usual. Somehow, she and Bucky had drifted towards one another and become allies in a bad situation. That horrible winter they both were transferred to the bigger dorms with the older children which made them feel impossibly more alone. It was a frigid night in January and she’d been listening to her stomach growl as her body shivered under her thin blanket when suddenly someone touched her arm. Bucky was kneeling in front of her, his face expressing exactly what she was feeling; he couldn’t take it anymore. That night, and countless nights after, he snuck up the creaky stairs to the girl’s floor to wordlessly slide under the covers with her and it was exactly what they both needed. It was never anything more than friendship and comfort; the love of a brother and sister before it was their reality, but it had saved them both. Twisting another bun Natasha tried to focus on how comforting it had been to touch Bucky’s hair that first night, even though it was cropped short, and not recall the hunger, or the cold, or the loneliness mixed in with the memory.

Sliding in another yellow pin she thought about their first plane ride. Phil sat in the aisle seat on their flight to America, allowing Bucky and Natasha to squeeze together against the window. They’d been so full of excitement, fear and relief that they’d _both_ been chosen to go with this nice man to a new home. He didn’t speak Russian and they didn’t really understand where they were going, or how they were so high above the clouds, but she could tell by the man’s face that it was someplace better. As they flew across the Atlantic, Natasha had allowed her hand to drift through Bucky’s hair while the nice man slept. It helped them both feel safer as they flew towards the unknown.

Picking up two more pins from a wrinkle in her comforter she felt a little grin creep onto her face as she remembered her first night in this room. She had never had a room to call her own, or slept in a space without the sounds of other children rustling around her. There was a soft pink blanket for her to snuggle under and a giant teddy bear for her to hold onto but despite the softness and warmth nothing was familiar and she couldn’t sleep. Bucky had waited until the nice man was asleep before he snuck down the new hallway and wordlessly climbed into her new bed; old habits carried across the ocean to their new life. They’d held each other that night, with the soft teddy bear between their chests, as she let her familiar fingers soothe them both. She would always perpetuate the myth that it was for Bucky’s benefit, but there was never a moment when her hands were touching his hair that the feeling of comfort wasn’t reciprocal.

She lined up the four remaining pins next to her leg on the bed, and tapped each one with her fingertip. The text Clint sent her around three-thirty hadn’t left her thoughts and now that it was after six she was starting to get nervous. In typical Clint fashion it said, ‘need to hijack ur phone tonight @6ish. Rogers’ assassination aborted. Additional intel suggests inaccurate assessment of assholery. Needs to talk to Cupcake ASAP. Also can u feed me ice cream? Rough day’.

It took a lot of thought, but she decided not to say a word about the text to Bucky. She didn’t think Rogers would flake out, but when she turned to look at her brother slumped in the back seat of the car as they drove home she chose not to take the risk. So, when her phone finally chimed at six-thirty she felt a mixture of relief and possessiveness. Bucky’s shoulders and back muscles had finally released and she could sense him starting to come back to her. She felt hesitant to break their spell when she was so close to pinning the final little spiral right behind his ear.

“That your boyfriend?” Bucky’s voice startled her. They were the first words he’d spoken since he said, ‘I don’t wanna talk about it’, as they got in the car after school.

Natasha looked at the words on the screen and started twisting the last strands of loose hair while she contemplated her next move. She didn’t let any hint of emotion slip through when she replied, “I don’t have a boyfriend.”

Bucky shook his head and let out a single sarcastic laugh. “Right... so is that your _secret_ boyfriend?”

“No”, she said it casually, “it’s _your_ secret boyfriend.” She meant for the joke to hide her concern, but she felt her facade slipping.

Bucky sprung up and flipped around, one of the mini twists on top of his head unlooping and bouncing into the air like a spring. “What?”

“Bucky…”, she started before stopping herself. Steve Rogers was a good person. She knew this. She needed to trust her gut. With a sigh she typed in a response before holding out the phone. “Here, he wants to talk to you.”

Bucky stared at her with wide eyes, his tall body overwhelming Natasha’s legs as he fell forward against her knees to grab it. There was a time in the beginning when they were the same height, but somehow, despite his constantly increasing size her brother always felt smaller to her. Bucky scrambled to the end of the bed, swinging his legs over the edge and creating a hopeful silhouette in the light of the television. She hated the tension and she hated seeing the muscles in Bucky’s back tightening again as he bent over the screen. Gathering  the leftover hair ties and wrapping them around the handle of the comb she tried to focus on how his hair felt twisting her hands instead of watching him open himself up to the possibility of pain. He hunched there for a long time, the phone chiming followed by the quickly typed clicks of his response, then more chiming and Bucky shaking his spiral covered head before more clicks. She liked it better when it was quiet.  

When it finally ended Bucky scooched wordlessly up against the headboard, his body pressed next to hers against the soft pillows. He passed her the phone.

“Wanna see?” He nuzzled his head against her shoulder and Natasha knew that he needed her to look.

“If you want me to,” she replied, pretending to watch Cas looking longingly at Dean.

Bucky simply nodded.

 

  
Rogers: Hey Natasha. Thank you so much for letting me text Bucky on your phone.

Natasha: Don’t make me regret it Rogers. Handing it over now

Rogers: Bucky?

Natasha: yeah

Rogers: Baby I’m so sorry. I fucked up so bad and I’m so sorry.

Natasha: …

Rogers: I need to explain. I’ll explain everything ok? Can you please meet me in the morning? There’s no practice, so can you meet me outside the library at 7?

Natasha: so now I’m ‘baby’ again?

Rogers: Jesus. YES!!!!!! God Bucky, this is so wrong. You don’t even understand how much you mean to me. How much I care about you. Please, I don’t want to do this over the phone, but I don’t want you thinking I don’t care. I care so fucking much! I just need to explain. Please meet me. Please.

Natasha: …

Rogers: A bunch of shit happened Buck. I just, I need to tell you in person. So I can look at you.

Natasha: fine

Rogers: Thank you! Thank you! I promise I’m gonna make this right. I promise.

Natasha: i think u could make it more right with a vanilla bean frap...just sayin

Rogers: Extra whip.

Natasha: it better have whip cream overflowing

Rogers: Deal. Bring your headphones.

Natasha: headphones?

Rogers: Trust me. Night Bucky

Natasha: ...

 

After Natasha finished reading she let her fingers drift over Bucky’s shoulder and back into the hair at the base of his skull. His eyes said it all; so much hope but so much fear.

She knew she had to say it, because it was the truth. “This isn’t Clint.”

“I know.”

“About Clint...”

“I made peace with it Nat. He’s gonna treat you like a queen.”

She tipped her head to the side and really looked at him. Really pondering if Clint was something they could share. Really pondering if Steve Rogers was the right thing for him. Really considering her next words carefully before she said, “Bucky, Steve’s a good person. I can tell he really likes you. But he’s got so much shit going on, so much more than we know. Are you sure you want to get involved with someone who’s...”

“What? Messed up?” Bucky laughed, tapping his head against the wood, and she knew exactly what he meant. She chuckled too as her fingers mingled her strands of red with his strands of brown; intertwining them together in the tight space between them.

“I love you little brother.”

“I love you too Nat.”

Later, when Bucky fell asleep sprawled out in the middle of her bed, with his hair in a pretty braid across the crown of his head, Natasha didn’t wake him up. Instead she rearranged the pillows and blankets in a little nest and snuggled up to him, taking off her slippers so it felt more like a chilly night in the orphanage.

*****

 

His dad still wasn’t letting him have his delicious morning Starbucks, the barbarian, so Steve better come through with the required Vanilla Bean Penance Frappuccino with overflowing whip. He fucking better cover his nipples and dick and whatever else Bucky wanted him to cover with fucking whip cream if he wanted to be forgiven for that bullshit yesterday. Yeah yeah yeah, they agreed he wasn’t coming out till the dance, like some completely stereotypical epic teen movie climax, he got it. But treating him like he couldn’t even stand to be near him in front of his friends? That shit was not gonna fly on any level! But Bucky really wanted that Frappucino so, despite his anger and against his better judgement, he executed his brilliant plan to escape the cruel and unusual punishment of his office prison cell. He told his dad he had to check out a book to help him study for his rojo del aqua casa del gato quiz and headed off to meet his supposed ‘boyfriend’, who couldn’t even talk to him normally, at the stupid fucking library.

Despite the texts and the vague apologies Bucky was so hurt. He let Steve fuck him. Supposedly ‘make love’ to him. He needed to just lay that shit right out there and deal with it because he felt like a fool. He let Steve Rogers take his goddamned virginity and he couldn’t even talk to him like a friend? Bucky yanked his oversized black beanie even further down his forehead and actually shoved his pink sunglasses onto his face as he stomped down the hall. Maybe Ezra was onto something with this ‘wearing sunglasses inside shit’ because he felt battle ready. Plus, he wore his badass ‘Knife Party’ shirt because, you know, it had a _knife_ on it. And you better bet your ass that he pinned his Pride button front and center on his beanie because he didn’t hide. For anybody. Not anymore.

He also wore his extra badass steel toe boots that he reserved for special mad occasions. The more his clunky boots stomped on the wooden floors, and the more the snobby rich fuckfaces gave him the stank eye as he shoved past them, the madder he got. Mad. Mad. Mad. He was mad at Steve. It had seemed so fucking perfect until it wasn’t. He picked up his pace and rounded the final corner towards the double doors to the library and god fucking damn it! God. Fucking. Damn. It!

There he was. Glowing like an Angel, at least like the ones Bucky was drooling over on ‘Supernatural’ last night, because Castiel was super hot in a daddy kind of way, but whatever. Whatever! There he was, the Golden God of Eaton sitting in all his glory on the long wooden bench outside the ginormous glass windows of the library. And of _course_ there were a zillion giggling girls around him, trying to get his attention with their perfect pink pouts and by throwing a little extra swing into their hips as they walked in front of him; repeatedly. But Steve wasn’t even looking. He was just fiddling with something in his hands. Bucky shoved past Harry and Charlie, who must be secretly conjoined because they were never fucking apart, and stomped a few steps closer to his ‘boyfriend’. _Of course_ he was wearing a super tight white t-shirt with seventies style red stripes on the arms, and _of course_ the red belt of sex was making a triumphant return by peeking out the bottom of the hem, and _of course_ he was having a spectacular hair day. Spectacular!

Bucky just stopped short about twenty feet in front of him, causing a bunch of kids to crash into one another in a ten car pile up behind him. There was lots of angry yelling and swearing but all he could see was those stupidly attractive blue puppy dog eyes, and his nervous hands holding a carefully wrapped gift. Gift!!! How the hell was Bucky supposed to stay mad when there was a present? He frowned. He was mad. Stay mad. Mad! Then he spotted it. _Of course_ his Angelic Vanilla Bean Frap was sitting on the bench next to Steve, sparkling with divine white light in all its Heavenly Venti glory with another Venti size cup oddly sitting next to it. If Steve thought he could sway him with gifts and two yummy treats he was…right. No! Dammit! He was wrong! Stay mad! Mad! But... gifts!

Steve finally looked up when everyone started swearing and he immediately popped off the bench like an angelic jock jack-in-the-box. Bucky noticed immediately that he was standing taller than yesterday. It was weird, like he’d somehow grown a few inches overnight and Bucky didn’t think it was just the hair. Steve made no panicked move to yank Bucky into some dark storage closet or to shove him into a smelly janitor’s closet or to put him in any kind of fucking closet because Steve Rogers just stood right up in front of a hall full of people and smiled a sheepishly happy smile right at him. Did he think nobody would see that shit? Yeah, he said he was sorry, and he said he needed to see him in person, but Bucky was not in any way shape or form expecting megawatt smiles and presents in front of...he looked around, in front of a _lot_ of people. Fucking fine, Bucky would walk up to him. Stomp up to him. He tried to ignore the perfectly wrapped something Steve placed on the bench and stomp extra aggressively forward, because that's what you do when you’re pissed!

“You came.” Steve bit his lip in a way that was far too sexy for the situation and he seemed relieved.

That’s what he’s gonna open with? Just throw the door wide open? Oh, that’s rich. Bucky tipped his chin up defiantly and stepped right on in. “Yeah Steve, I did. All over my stomach as I recall. But since it seemed to scare you away I was hesitant to do it again.”

Steve let out a frustrated sigh, the happy smile wiped clean off by Bucky’s perfect little smartass remark. “Bucky. Can…” he sighed again, “here, here's your frappuccino.” The frosty yumminess was placed into Bucky’s hand then Steve weirdly handed him the other cup too. It was super light.

“What the hell?”

The little shit smile was creeping back as he casually explained, “It's extra whip.”

“You got me a Venti full of whip cream?”

Steve reached forward, little shit smile in full effect, and rotated the cup in his hand until Bucky could clearly read ‘my baby’s extra creamy whip” in black sharpie.

“You made the barista write this?”

He rotated the frap in his other hand until he could read ‘Baby’.

Bucky just stood there double fisting the sweetness because holy shit that was so damn sweet! Gooey sappy perfect sweetness and jesus he totally had enough whip cream to just pour it all over those pecs...

“Can we sit down for a minute?” Steve interrupted his very ‘not mad’ train of thought.

“I'm still mad.” He was really trying to be at least.

“I know.”

There was something different in his eyes that made Bucky sit down. Something totally different than yesterday. Steve wasn’t whispering, and he wasn’t hesitating, and he made the barista write ‘baby’ on his cup.

“So,” Steve reached over and tangled his finger in the threads hanging from the hole in the  knee of Bucky’s jeans, which was...surprising. “I could explain and apologize for the way I acted yesterday for hours, because Bucky you deserve that. But I don't want to make excuses anymore. I just want you to know everything that’s going on and to understand, so if anything like that happens again you won't think it's you, because nothing bad was about you. But right now we don’t have hours, so I just need you to know a few important facts.” He paused dramatically, and Bucky felt like something massive was about to happen so he slurped a massive gulp of frozen goodness to prepare. “My situation with Alexander is bad. Its very bad and it’s getting worse and I have to be realistic that if he finds out I'm gay he'll...I honestly don't know what he’ll do Bucky. And I honestly don’t know what _I’ll_ do.” Steve paused to look into Bucky’s eyes but instead of looking sheepish he seemed to look stronger with every word. Like telling Bucky the whole truth gave him power. “Something’s wrong with Brock. I don't know what it is but I'm afraid he's going to try something, I just have a bad feeling. I don’t want you to get hurt. He got really threatening after practice yesterday and he was talking about you, and me...about _us_. And I just panicked…”

Good god Bucky was a dick! A dick! He set his cups down on the bench because he did not deserve the delights contained within. “Fuck Steve, I had…”

“Wait Buck. Wait, I have to say the rest. You have to know so you can decide if you even want to be with me.”

“Stevie…”

“I’m depressed Bucky.”

His back seemed straighter than Bucky had ever seen it. Even in all the years watching Steve surrounded by his beautiful friends doing beautiful things with that golden god smile he never looked as strong as he did right at this very moment.

Steve allowed his hand to wrap around Bucky’s thigh, which was absolutely right in front of the now very crowded hall. “I have been for a long time, since my mom died really, and I'm not dealing with it very well.” He squeezed and Bucky felt his heart rate pick up. “I keep panicking. I have horrible panic attacks and when it happens I can't always stop it.”

Bucky felt Steve steel himself and watched him physically tilt his chin higher, “Sometimes I have thoughts that scare me Bucky, and you should know. You should know so you can run in the other direction if you want to. I just started talking about it, like yesterday, and it’s hard for me, and I’m a mess. Inside my head is a total cluster fuck so I would understand if it’s too much for you to deal with. I would understand.”

Holy shit.

“But if you want to stay Bucky, you need to know that you’re the first _real_ thing I've felt in so damn long that I'm overwhelmed by it. I’m overwhelmed by you. I’m writing poetry about you for christ’s sake. But even though I feel totally overwhelmed I only want more of you. I want it all and I don't want to sit here and try to make you feel sorry for me, or to feel sorry for myself anymore, and I'm sick of pretending. I want everything to be real. And I want to be real with you, no matter what happens.”

“You write poetry?” Bucky did not know what to say because he was a selfish asshole. God he had everything so fucking wrong and he needed to pour every version of ‘i’m sorry’ all over Steve right now, but all he could say was ‘you write poetry?’ Why the fuck would someone who writes poetry even want to be with him in the first place?

“Yeah, Clint told me to maybe hold off on giving it to you so I didn’t come across as a romantic psycho stalker.”

“Clint called you a stalker?”

“Not in so many words,” Steve shook his head a little and chuckled, glancing up with something hopeful.

“You talked to Clint about me?”

“I think he fully intended on kicking my ass to tell you the truth, but luckily he just gave me some solid advice.”

Bucky could not believe what he was hearing. “Advice about poetry?”

“Among other things.”

Bucky’s brain took exactly thirty-three seconds to process this situation because he was overloaded. His grid got overloaded and everything shut down for thirty-three seconds while he just stared at a cautiously hopeful Steve Rogers and tried to reboot. Then, he could feel the power charging back up, like Mega-Charizard or some shit, because suddenly the silence gave way to panic! And oh fuck was he about to fucking freak out because he was an asshole!!!

“Steve, I’m such an asshole! Oh my fucking god! I pushed you. I pushed you when I said I wouldn’t and I made this all about me and it wasn't…” Bucky suddenly caught sight of Steve’s right arm and saw that it had a mother fucking burn on it! What the fuck! What the fuck? He instinctively reached across and grabbed his hand. “Your arm, oh god Steve. What? Oh my god, when…”

“Buck. It’s ok, it’s not important right now. It’s gonna stop. I’m going to figure out how to stop it, but for right now I just want to tell you how sorry I am, and I want to give you something to show you how I feel. And a few of these might be a bit intense for our brand new five day old roller coaster romance, but it’s the feeling behind them that I want you to understand. Did you remember to bring your headphones?”

Bucky could not stop staring at Steve’s burnt arm, it was pink and there were blisters and when did that happen? It didn’t look new! Was it there yesterday!? Jesus fucking christ! But Steve was trying to tell him something. Something important. “Headphones? Yeah, headphones, hang on.” Yanking them out of his backpack he handed them to Steve and was given the beautifully wrapped box in exchange.

“Go ahead,” Steve said, and gave him a cautious smile, “unwrap it.”

Bucky tore into the paper because that’s how you unwrap a fucking gift, no matter how pretty it is! He threw off the lid and peeled back the white tissue paper and what!? He could not believe what he was looking at! Steve was sucking on his bottom lip again, which was so distracting, but right now the authentic nineteen-eighties cassette walkman that had a modern headphone splitter attached to it was beating out Steve’s sexy lip biting for Bucky’s attention. There was already a pair of turquoise headphones coming out of one side and Steve cautiously reached over to plug in Bucky’s patriotic pair into the other half.

“Tony helped me rig it with the splitter, actually Tony completely rigged it by himself while I ate pizza, but…”

“You got me a walkman?”

“Well yeah, but not just a walkman. Lift it up silly.”

Bucky cautiously lifted it out of the box, it was a zillion years old after all, and underneath was a single cassette case with a colorful handwritten cover. Leaning in and squinting at the little plastic rectangle he saw that each song had a little description next to it and the colors were wrapping around the words.

Bucky snorted out a laugh as he read the spine. “You called it ‘Steve’s Overly Romantic Stalker Mix Tape?”

“Well Clint got me thinking so I just decided I should be honest about it.” He shrugged like it was the most obvious statement in the world and Bucky could only look at him in wonder.

                                                       

“I want you to know what you’re getting into Bucky, and music is the best way for me to show you.” Steve slipped the red, white and blue headphones onto Bucky’s head, over his beanie and his sunglasses, because mother fucking fucker he’d been wearing his sunglasses for this _entire_ conversation! Whatever, no reason to take them off at this point. Steve smiled sweetly and slid the turquoise earbuds in his own ears. “Will you listen to the first song with me? It perfectly expresses how you make me feel.”

Bucky just nodded because this was some high intensity romance right here. Steve took the box and the cassette from him then grabbed his hand to pull him up off the bench. The look on his face as he popped the door to the walkman and slid the tape in, side one, was wonderful. Bucky could only describe the slight smile, and the slight hilt to his breathing, and the slight sheen to his eyes as winter wonderland wonderful. Then Steve steered him into the very center of the jammed hallway. The first bell was about to ring and everyone was there. Everyone. Steve stopped right in the middle; in full view of the library’s floor to ceiling windows, in full view of the groups sitting on the ledges and benches up and down the long hall and in full view of the kids that were now slowing down all around them.

Steve let his fingertips connect to Bucky’s knuckles and said, “I want you to hold this in your right hand ok?”

“Uhhh,” Bucky felt a mixture of anticipation and confusion bouncing around his stomach as he stood there, because what the fuck was happening?

Steve placed the ancient walkman in his palm and pushed play. The volume was cranked all the way up so instantly there was nothing but the sound of Sleeping With Sirens ‘Feel’ filling his mind. He knew this song, but not well, so Bucky listened carefully as Steve planted himself like a sturdy tree directly in front of him. The bodies were pushing past them in slowly crawling currents but somehow he felt like he was on a safe island in the middle of a violent river. It was crazy. The guitars and the energy poured through the headphone splitter and Steve gazed directly into Bucky’s eyes like something magical was about to happen. As he listened carefully to every single word of the first verse Bucky understood that it had already begun...

 

‘I used to be a ghost floating aimlessly so they couldn’t see

what I think hurts the most.

I felt like it made me hate me.

But i won’t apologize for being different

I can be who I am and yeah,

I felt so dead inside

But now I feel so alive for the first time’

 

Wow. Wow. Wow. Then the chorus hit and Steve did something so shocking that Bucky literally could not move. As the words ‘And I feel, I feel so alive again’ blasted into their minds simultaneously Steve gently lifted Bucky’s left arm and popped and unbuckled every single cuff and leather bracelet, allowing them to stack up in his hands. People were starting to stop and stare but Bucky didn’t give a shit. There was only the song, and Steve, and the feeling of his bare arm. When Steve unsnapped the last cuff, the red one, Bucky understood. Oh my god.

 

‘Is there somewhere I can go?

Oh I’d go there, take me anywhere.

Cause this person i don’t know,

The one that’s staring back at me, is not who i want to be’

 

Steve flipped Bucky’s hand palm side up and carefully lifted it to his lips and Bucky was obviously about to go into shock. Seriously, he felt dizzy. Then, unbelievably, he leaned forward with his perfect tiny smile and that adorable little lip bite and kissed the underside of Bucky’s wrist before snapping the first solid black cuff over the exact same spot. The tip of Steve’s nose dragged over his skin as he moved up an inch and kissed the next spot. He was looking up at Bucky with an emotion that he couldn’t even begin to explain while he buckled the thick black one with the heavy green thread. Working up his entire forearm Steve tenderly kissed each piece of skin before wrapping it in leather and carefully securing each strap. Three, four, five, six, seven and eight; all fastened with a public kiss and undeniable intent.

Once Steve reached the final cuff, number nine, Bucky looked around and the hallway had frozen. The library had frozen. Hundreds of pairs of eyes were staring right at them when Steve lifted the red leather circle and let it dangle in the space between their chests. He paused while the song repeated ‘I feel so alive again’ before giving Bucky the most dazzling smile he’d ever seen. In his entire life! It was different and dazzling because he’d never had _anyone_ look at him like that before! He felt... loved. God, he felt so loved! Steve pressed the most reverent kiss to the skin above the crook of Bucky’s elbow then snapped the red leather tight.

That was it, Bucky was gonna cry. Big crocodile tears of sappy joy. But as the song slowed down at the bridge and repeated ‘could you help me find, could you help me find a way,’ Steve was tipping his head a little, his smile asking a question, and it was one that Bucky knew he had to answer. Was he ready for this? Probably not. Was this too much? Definitely. Steve was giving him an out. Did he want it? Not in the slightest. Steve was a fucking mess, but jesus christ so was Bucky! Steve’s fingers were moving up and down his arm, touching each cuff and giving them little tugs, and Bucky knew that the messes didn’t matter. They somehow belonged together, messes and all. Slowly pulling off his sunglasses he offered Steve a hopeful little smile.

Time slowed down, exactly like a scene in an overblown romance movie. The camera swirled around their heads as Steve cupped Bucky’s face and kissed him right in the middle of that fucking hallway with so much love and passion that there were literal fireworks. Behind his eyelids he saw Katy Perry fireworks exploding on the ceiling with giant gold shimmery sparkles and bright rainbow trails. He could feel the crowd around them freaking out but he didn’t care! The only thing Bucky cared about in this incomprehensible Fourth of July moment was the perfect words of the song and the feeling of Steve’s arms pulling him closer. When his cool tongue slipped into Bucky’s mouth and his strong hand slid underneath his long hair to grip the back of his neck he knew they both were truly alive.

The bell rang and brought Bucky back to Earth, well at least back into orbit. Bucky wasn’t stupid enough to think that a kiss could fix everything, not when there was so much to fix, but god this sure felt like a pretty amazing start.

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Holidays everyone! I've gotta say all the wonderful comments I've received have been so affirming and motivating, so thank you! The drawing that goes along with this chapter was actually made earlier this year. It was the first time I actually put the punk high school boys that were swimming around in my head onto paper and it motivated this entire project. So the drawing doesn't match up exactly to the scene, but I felt the vibe was the same. It's called "Steve & Bucky: I've got your back". Come visit me on  
> [Tumblr](http://lucidnancyboy.tumblr.com)  
> and [Instagram](https://www.instagram.com/jessielucidart/)  
> I love to hear from you wonderful people! 
> 
> If you want to listen to Steve's entire mixtape for Bucky, which I of course highly recommend, it will really help you understand his headspace. Music is a HUGE part of my life and I've tried to let Steve use it at a tool to express his very difficult emotions to Bucky. If you do listen I'd love to hear your thoughts! Let's talk music!  
> Finally, if you or someone you know suffers from depression or anxiety (like me), the advice Sam and Clint gave Steve was very solid (smart boys). Let's all support one another and make sure we are talking to the right people about these very serious issues. Hugs for Steve and Hugs for Bucky and Hugs for you!
> 
> Chapter 10 Trivia: First comment with the correct answer gets spiked eggnog and a plate of the most delicious Christmas cookies!
> 
> 1\. What film was a referencing when Bucky was imagining covering Steve's nipples and dick in whip cream?
> 
> I'm too busy to put together my list of references, so much Stucky goodness to achieve, so if you have any questions don't hesitate to ask. :) XOXO


	11. Bipolar Fusion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone! I had so many positive comments about Steve's Mixtape last chapter and I was so thrilled that so many of you listened to the Sleeping With Sirens song with the scene that I've decided to upload my inspiration playlist for each chapter onto my new Youtube channel (Jessie Lucid). The first section of this chapter goes along with the Chapter 10 Mixtape, then once you hit the first big break it switches to the Chapter 11 playlist. Enjoy and thank you for being amazing :) [JessieLucidYouTube](https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCjADIMzQjvmnAs-nGoSG0JQ) Secret: I listened to the song "You & Me" by Bassnectar on repeat while I wrote the entire Graffiti scene. For full impact I suggest you do the same :)

 

                                                       

 

There was no doubt in Bucky’s mind that this nineteen-eighty-seven authentic emo mixtape was by far the deepest, most emotional thing he’d ever experienced. And that includes bearded Ryan Gosling throwing that rowboat around like a stud and making out in the rain in ‘The Notebook’, and Celine Dion wailing about that cute frozen popsicle Leonardo, and that part in Brokeback Mountain when Ennis hugs and smells Jack’s blue denim shirt to try to recapture a hint of him. Beating that weepy shirt scene is huge because Bucky cried over that shit for at least three weeks! He even had to donate his super sweet blue denim shirt to Sal’s because he couldn’t handle having it in his closet! Real Talk: even after he moved that Jack Swift shirt behind his excellent red puffy ski jacket from the eighties, Bucky still knew it was there and it made him cry. Jesus fucking christ, he had to stop thinking about it immediately or the regretful tears would rise again...oh yes they would. Bucky sighed because now his brain was on an unstoppable roll. Why didn't they just move to that ranch like Jack wanted?! They could have been so happy riding around on their horses, moving sheep around on mountains, and having awesome cowboy sex in the cowboy position. Maybe sex with just chaps on, and the hats. Chaps and hats! Great, now Bucky was crying. Fucking Ennis!

Somehow Steve Rogers had outdone that queer cowboy masterpiece by giving Bucky this sentimental off-the-wall Walkman. Where did he even find this thing? The wheels creaked as they rotated, and the pause button stuck unless you gave it a little extra push, and there was some sort of residue on the back that looked like the remnants of a scratch and sniff sticker, and it was fucking perfect. Then, as if that wasn’t enough emotional nitrous, Steve had to go and carefully pick out these emotional superchargers called songs; songs that made Bucky cry even more than thinking about Ennis and his ‘Jack Swift scented’ blue shirt.

It was mind boggling how twelve carefully chosen songs on a mixtape could top sleeping with Steve for Bucky’s emotional first place trophy. Up until this morning sleeping with Steve had been, by far, the deepest, most emotional thing Bucky had ever experienced but it only took three short days for Steve to beat his own Guinness World Record. Having sex with him was obviously unbelievable, and the connection Bucky felt as Steve touched him and held him and fucked into him was more than intense. Bucky could authentically live in that moment forever, but this tape was ...well this tape took the nine tiered emotional wedding cake. This tape qualified as a full on sugar filled ‘holy shit, who knew that Steve Rogers was such a super deep emotional guy?’ moment. Bucky always knew there was so much more to Steve than he let everyone see, but this mixtape was ‘Journey to the Center of the Earth’ deep when Bucky had been suspecting Grand Canyon. But speaking honestly, Bucky would totally sign up for that perilous journey into the mantle with Steve because even though he was dealing with so much horrific shit, the emotions made him real. It meant that Steve was transforming from the Cockyboyz idealized crush, that only existed somewhere in Bucky’s imagination, into a real flesh and blood human being; one that Bucky was falling for. Hard. Seriously, if this mixtape had this effect on Bucky then what the fuck was the Romantic Stalker Poem gonna do to him?

Bucky got in trouble at least six times before lunch, which was about three times more than usual. First hour, he lasted five minutes until his curiosity about the rest of the tape took control of his body. He stumbled up to Mr. Kuzinski channeling Chunk from ‘Goonies’ and moaned that he was gonna puke. Mr. K totally fell for it and pointed to the door like ‘get your germy ass out of my classroom’! Success! Bucky jogged down a flight of stairs towards his favorite bathroom on the second floor then hid in his favorite corner stall to listen to Side One. He really dug this bathroom because it was low on traffic and it had some sort of chill vibe. The tiles were a deep forest green that Bucky found comforting and the little squares went halfway up the walls. He wasn’t an interior decorator on anything but Bucky understood enough about aesthetics to know it looked cool where the dark green met the creamy beige walls. The high ceilings had fancy-pants crown mouldings around the edges and a few cracks with peeling paint in the corner above Bucky’s stall. The other bathrooms at Eaton were updated and bright like creepy operating rooms which made them seem sterile, and Bucky was not down for that! This one seemed old, like the building really was, and it had that comforting vibe that sometimes existed in older things. He liked it.

The corner stall was his official top secret hideout for many reasons; the first being the small rectangular window that overlooked the busy street in front of the school. Bucky could stare out at the busy pastry shop that sold Daisy’s favorite lemon squares and Natasha’s Khvorost, although the baker called them Angel Wings, and imagine shoving mushy Walnut Brownies into his mouth. Plus, the excellent Mexican place next door always had some spicy action going on in the window to distract Bucky when things got really shitty; not spicy tacos or chimichangas, but spicy arguments between the line cooks or the owner storming around pointing and gesturing about something or other. It was his own private TV show and Bucky liked making up stories about what they might be yelling about; ‘I know you put hot sauce on Carmen in the storage room!’, ‘Who ate all the fried ice cream?!’, ‘No we can’t have a Taco Bell chihuahua in the restaurant!’. It was wildly entertaining and a great escape from his own less funny private school programming. Reason number two was the ancient cast iron radiator that stood proudly in his secret stall. It somehow survived the sterilizing renovations and provided the perfect place for Bucky to throw up his feet when he needed to be truly incognito. This mixtape mission was definitely a incognito moment so he threw up his clunky ‘mad’ boots and wiggled them around until the slipped perfectly into the nooks between the pipes.

He closed his eyes listened to the flow of the songs. Steve had organized them to move from apologies, which were completely unnecessary now that Bucky understood the full spectrum of shit Steve was dealing with, to really dark songs about feeling trapped and depressed. Bucky couldn’t stop himself from scrubbing his hands up and down his face and screwing up his eyes as he listened to the lyrics because these songs were a long way from “Feel” in the hallway with the giddy fireworks and the french kissing. He had no idea that things were this bad...he knew they were bad...but...this was super bad, and McLovin was nowhere to be found. He knocked his head against the stall and had the burning desire to run down the halls to Steve’s class right this second! Steve needed to be snuggled in the plushest warm zebra print blankets with three soft and sleepy calico kittens snugged up to his face! The urge to deliver purring burrito fuzziness to his boyfriend to try to make the horrific shit go away was real. He wanted to fix it! Bucky stared at his favorite cracks spidering out across the ceiling and felt so fucking helpless. He knew depression didn’t work like that, and no amount of sweet snuggling kittens could heal the bruises and burns on Steve’s body. No matter how gently he wrapped Steve in fuzzy animal print blankets it wouldn’t get him out of that fucking hellhole. The cracks on the ceiling seemed to grow right before his eyes as Bucky sat in his top secret bathroom hideout with his feet wedged in the radiator. He started ripping at the hole in the knee of his jeans and tried to figure out the answer to the real question: What now? What the fuck was going to happen now?

Natasha never failed to make Bucky feel better by running her fingers through his hair and seeing how many girly braided and twisted styles she could get away with before Bucky gave her the evil eye. Fact: Bucky _never_ gave her the evil eye and he rocked the hell out of that pretty princess french braid she’d wrapped around the crown of his head last night. He wondered if he could help Steve the same way? Not the braiding obviously, but by running his fingers through Steve’s spectacular hair. He scoffed at himself and pressed his shoulders blades harder against the stall because that was fucking stupid! Steve was asking for help, real fucking help, and all Bucky could think to do was wrap him in a zillion blankets and throw kittens at him while petting his hair? Bucky sighed aggressively because now he had a horribly disturbing image of Steve wrapped up way too tightly in a tiger print blanket, like a taquito instead of a burrito, and stuck helplessly on the ground with a million unruly catnip kittens attacking him from all sides and clawing at his spectacular hair. Mother fucking fuck, Bucky needed to get his brain under control and be more realistic about this shit. He _had_ to get Steve to talk to his dad again.

Over the music Bucky heard someone walk into the bathroom and he didn’t move an inch; Super Assassin Incognito Stealth Mode initiated.

“Bucky, are you in here?” It was Sam and he sounded annoyed. Sam also had to endure Mr. Kuzinski’s passive aggressive approach to Classical Literature so this was no doubt a search and rescue mission.

“No,” Bucky chuckled. “There’s nothing to see here. This is a completely empty bathroom.” Even though Sam couldn’t see him, he waved his hand and tried to channel Luke Skywalker as he hit the sticky pause button.

“Man, are you pretending to be a Jedi right now? You realize you’re eighteen years old right?”

“Seventeen actually, but you’re never too old to be a Jedi. Look at Yoda! He was like nine-hundred or something! Plus, the force runs strong within me.”

The sigh Sam let out was hilarious, and Bucky started giggling. He couldn’t help it.

“Bucky, will you just come out of there? Mr. Kuzinski sent me on a rescue mission, because I _always_ get sent on the rescue missions, and I’ve been trying to find you for over ten minutes!” Bucky heard the bathroom door shut and Sam switched up his tone. “I mean, don’t get me wrong, I’m perfectly happy to get out of peer editing to work on a missing person’s case, but Mr. K’s about to call the office.”

“But sick am I. The vomit has led me down the dark path, consume me it has!”

Bucky heard Sam’s sneakers getting dangerously close to his secret hideout. Discovery was imminent! There was a dramatic pause before curiosity got the best of Sam and he blurted out, “why can’t I see your feet?”

“Because there’s nothing here. All you see is an empty stall. Now move along.”

The comedic force triumphed and Sam laughed, “would you just open the door weirdo?”

Bucky had no desire to leave his oddly comfortable position so he stretched out his arm to slide open the lock to let the door swing open. “Enter my humble abode you shall Sam Wilson. Stay for the soup you must.”

“Man, I don’t know you that well but I know you well enough to say this shit is weird. Even for you.”

“Priorities have I, and English Literature is not one of them. Listen to Steve’s mixtape I must! The key to overcoming the dark side it is.”

Sam squeezed his big muscles and big booty into the secret hideout, which wasn’t so secret anymore dammit, and unceremoniously shoved Bucky’s legs further towards the wall so he could shut the door. Bucky took a minute to question this choice, the rest of the bathroom was empty after all, but if Sam Wilson wanted to have a meeting of the Rebel Alliance in his top secret bathroom stall who was Bucky to deny him that choice? Neither of them being small Jedis, close quarters it was!

“So, Steve really came out in the most dramatic way possible, huh?” Sam squeezed himself into the corner between the radiator and the door and crossed his beefy arms across his olive green t-shirt. He engaged his duck lips and Bucky felt the lecture coming. “You understand what a big deal that is for him right? I assume you’re aware that everyone’s talking about it? Ezra texted me that the whole school’s freaking out not just because he’s gay but because he has the audacity to be slumming it with you.”

Bucky’s jaw dropped open because that was super dicky, and dicky wasn’t Sam’s usual style. “Jesus, thanks for your candor asshole,” Bucky snarled and shoved his boots back onto the front edge of the radiator, right up against Sam’s fucking hip because it wasn’t his fucking problem if Sam Wilson fucking chose to squeeze his giant fucking ass into his fucking stall!

“You need to hear it Bucky, because this is gonna be hard for him.”

Bucky officially reached DEFCON 1 so he dialed his snark level all the way and yelled, “you don’t think I know that!? I’m not a fucking idiot!”

“Woah man, chill. I’m just trying to prove a point. Steve said a lot of scary shit to me and Clint yesterday and I’m worried. Did he tell you what he’s dealing with?”

Bucky tried really hard calm back down to DEFCON 5 and remember that this super smooth Marvin Gaye loving African-American jock was actually Steve’s loyal hobbit Samwise Gamgee; and that Sam was just trying to keep his Frodo from getting stabbed by the horrifying Morgul blade. Pulling his beanie lower on his forehead images of Steve scrambling backwards on the cold hard rock while the Wraiths surrounded him made Bucky feel sick. Samwise Gamgee couldn’t stop it...Merry and Pippin couldn’t stop it... and there was nobody else there to keep the Witch King from sliding that poisonous blade into Frodo’s shoulder with a terrifying squelch. Bucky didn’t want Steve to get stabbed! He didn’t want to be the one that stood by helpless to do anything! Bucky wanted to be the one that blasted in there with a big sword and a fiery stick to light all those ugly mother fuckers on fire before they could do the stabbing! Did that make Bucky a more timely Aragorn? He kinda liked that idea; loved it really. They did have the same hair…

The giant hobbit was staring impatiently at him with sky high eyebrows and Bucky knew he better get this answer right.

Blowing out a breath hard enough to make his lips vibrate like a sad horse, Bucky said, “Yeah, he told me, but we didn’t get to talk about anything because of all the romance and shit.”

Sam shook his head like Bucky and Steve were both idiots. Then he shook it some more to _stress_ that he thought Bucky and Steve were both idiots, and shook it and shook it  and shook it. Fuck dude, point made! Finally he stopped the judgemental shaking and switched to judgemental talking. “Man, he’s gonna need to talk about it. You know this could end badly in about a thousand different ways.”

“I know.”

And Bucky _did_ know. Steve had been carrying the weight of the world on his back for far too long and he couldn’t support it by himself anymore. When Bucky let that beautiful boy snap the red cuff around his arm he was telling Steve that he was ready shoulder some of the weight. No matter how swoony Bucky felt Sam was right; this was so much more than a fun little high school fling and he could never forget that.

Sam looked at Bucky for a long time...and Bucky looked at Sam for a long time...until the sound of the bathroom door interrupted their telepathic stare down. Bucky snickered as Sam face switched from judgemental staring to complete panic in less that a second. Perhaps he finally realized that he’d locked himself in a bathroom stall with the notoriously gay Bucky Barnes and that his very obvious white sneakers were facing the wrong direction; the ‘fucking in a bathroom stall’ direction. Bucky had to slap his hand over his mouth and squeeze really tight to contain his laughter because this shit was comedy at its finest. Sam glared at him then quickly turned around so his bubble butt was smack dab in Bucky’s face. Quick butt analysis: Bucky liked tiny butts and Steve’s shoulder to ass ratio was his perfect poison, but upon close inspection he had to admit that Sam’s round bubble butt booty was quality. They remained frozen in this face to ass position while they listened to someone taking a very long piss. Bucky tried really really hard to be good, but the temptation for booty comedy was impossible to resist. As the sound of the piss stream drew to its dribbling conclusion, Bucky slowly snuck his hand up to give Sam’s ass a tiny little pinch. Poor Sam leapt forward like he’d been electrocuted and banged so hard into the stall door that it rattled on its hinges. The undignified yelp that escaped his throat sounded like someone stepped on his puppy dog tail. Fucking Classic! Bucky cracked up and whoever the mystery pisser was said, “I did _not_ need to hear that”, before bolting without washing his hands.

“You mother fucker, that was…”

“Hilarious it was young padawan,” Bucky implemented his best Yoda voice as Sam desperately tried to open the door without any more contact.

Sam finally swung the door open, stormed out, and spun around to point a very mad finger at him. “You! Get out of that stall right now!” Maybe Sam was pissed? Bucky gave him a toothy grin. Yeah, he looked a little pissed.

Being that he was the king of pushing jokes too far Bucky kept right on pushing. “Learn to control you anger, you must…”

“Oh no! Nope,” Sam interrupted. “I get that you think you’re hilarious but I need you stop the stand up act and get real for a minute! Are you capable of that?”

Bucky unwedged himself from his cozy place and stood up, because yes, he was capable of that. “Yeah.”

“Steve’s in trouble and it’s only going to get worse. I’m glad he came out, I am, but the way he did it was reckless. He needs your help Bucky and I need to know; are you gonna be there?”

Bucky took a deep breath and drifted back to the song that was playing before Sam tracked him down; Nine Inch Nails ‘Something I Can Never Have’. He thought about the darkness of the lyrics, and about the things Steve said this morning, and about the raised white blisters on his fucking arm. Pressing his palms around the edge of the sink Bucky really stared at himself in the mirror and tried to see himself as Aragorn; strong, fearless, willing to go to war to protect Frodo on his dangerous mission...and Bucky could actually start to see it. He set aside the romance of the clicking and snapping leather cuffs and remembered the bright red blood dripping down the front of Steve’s leather jacket. He set aside the excitement of the exploding gold fireworks and remembered Steve’s panicked expression at lunch yesterday and how badly he’d misinterpreted what was happening. He set aside the fantasy of the ‘Say Anything” moment and the feeling of Steve kissing him in front of everyone and thought about Steve telling him that he didn’t know what would happen, or what _he_ would do, if Alexander found out. What the hell did that mean? He laid down his excitement about the perfect quirky walkman filled with Steve’s secrets and remembered how devastated he felt yesterday when he thought Steve didn’t want him; about how easily that took him to such a dark place. He looked at his reflection and really analyzed the path ahead. With Samwise Gamgee standing behind him with his little hobbit arms crossed and a serious mean mug on his wee hobbit face, Bucky took a deep breath and allowed the final transformation into Aragorn to take place. “I’m gonna be there.”

There was only five minutes left by the time they made it back to first hour and Bucky had to put on his best sad and sick face to avoid detention. The way Kuzinski was looking at him, with the duck lips and the slight bobbing of his surprisingly hip undercut, meant he knew Bucky was full of shit, and therefore Sam was full of shit by default. But luck was on their side because the bell rang and saved them; they were Saved by the Bell!

Sadly his Zack Morris moment didn’t last, because on the way to his locker that fucking prick Frank Castle came barreling towards him in his black henley and his black jeans and his black sneakers and his black hair and his black soul and Bucky thought it was about to be Freshman year all over again. Fuckface was gonna try to clothesline Bucky or something equally black and evil; the first official hate crime now that Steve Rogers came out of the closet. But a lot had changed since ninth grade, and a lot had changed since last week, and a lot had changed in the last hour, and Bucky still had that sad sad sad Nine Inch Nails song repeating in his head, and he was grasping the legendary sword Anduril firmly in his fist, and he had his epic Tolkien hair backing him up, so he was not gonna fuckin’ take it this time!!!

Daisy quickly ran up next to Bucky for the assist, just in time for him to throw Beowulf, his Transformers Trapper Keeper and the precious walkman into her very confused and overflowing arms so he could square-off like a boss with mother fucking Frank Castle!

“What?” Bucky put his arms out for emphasis and was impressed by his own badassness. “You got a fuckin’ problem?” If he could hashtag himself at this moment he totally would. #thuglife

“Aww man,” Frank’s voice was low, and he shook his head in super super slow motion before knocking his shoulder into the locker in front of Bucky. There was no clothesline, no punch, no rude comment...no anything. He just leaned against the lockers and crossed one leg over the other, allowing the goddamned toothpick in his mouth hang out at a jaunty angle, and said, “it ain’t like that.”

Daisy laughed uncomfortably behind him but just knowing she was there was comforting. God, it felt fucking unbelievable to finally stand up to this dick! Bucky took a step forward to crowd him. “Yeah? What’s it like then?”

“I just gotta tell you...” Frank muttered then paused like he was conflicted. He looked over Bucky’s shoulder at Daisy, then glanced around all shady-like before finishing his sentence. “Just watch yourself around Brock.”

That was the most confusing sentence to ever come out of another human being’s mouth in Bucky’s very short but very adventurous lifetime. “Excuse me?”

Frank rolled his head on his shoulders, and Bucky could hear it crack. “I don’t know man. Fun is fun, but Brock isn’t just having fun anymore.”

Daisy scoffed and Bucky felt the sting of every single mother fucking hit Frank Castle had ever inflicted on his body all at once. He remembered the devastation he felt every single goddamn time Frank rushed down the hall towards him at full speed and how helpless it felt knowing there was absolutely nothing he could do to stop the impact. The unwelcome memories of shame and embarrassment hit him as hard as the phantom physical pain as he flashed back: his smaller body sprawling violently onto the wood planks with his books flung ten feet in every direction and kids laughing all around him...the goddamn sound of Castle’s boots stomping within inches of his face as he lay doubled over in pain from another hellacious kick to the nuts….the humiliation of having to tell Clint he was hurt again. Bucky felt uncontrollable rage overtaking the pain of the memories and he stepped even further into Frank’s space. “Fun?! You’re fucking kidding me right!?”

Castle took a step back, which was a first. “Man, I don’t got time to argue with you. I’m trying to do you a solid. I’m not cool with some of the shit Brock’s been saying lately.” He stared at Bucky with his black eyes and his wrinkled forehead like he really needed him to listen. “Just watch your back. Rogers too.”

When Frank Castle walked away, pushing through the wall of hurried students until he disappeared, Bucky was so confused. Daisy was scrunching up her cute little nose and making a not-cute face as she handed Bucky his crap and the walkman. It was pretty obvious that she was equally confused by the whole gangster bully redemption. What the actual fuck?

During second hour Bucky got super stealthy and convinced Skinner, with much difficulty, to covertly run the turquoise earbuds underneath the back of his t-shirt while his Calculus teacher was doing some teacher shit on her computer. Skinner kept dropping one side, meaning had to keep leaning farther and farther over his desk to dig around under Bucky’s shirt over and over. He definitely was grumbling the entire time.

“Hey, can you scratch the middle while you’re all up in there?” Bucky whispered over his shoulder, “It’s pretty itchy.”

Skinner’s big brown eyes were the serious business variety when flicked Bucky’s spine. “Stop moving!”

“I could use a massage too,” Bucky snickered, “but hold the happy ending. Save that for your new girlfriend.”

“I swear to god Bucky.” The ‘over the desk’ technique had been abandoned and Skinner was now attempting the ‘leaning dangerously around the side’ maneuver. This method involved dragging his blue tie on the wood floor and barely catching his Buddy Holly glasses as they slipped off his nose while impatiently trying to shove the cord out the top.

“Ooo, you didn’t deny it,” Bucky taunted and wiggled his ass for effect.

“No comment.”

Skinner finally succeeded and Bucky carefully tucked the earbuds into his ears, concealing them under his mega-messy hair. Luscious Aragorn hair was great for whipping around during battles, and looking all sexy over campfires, but it was also really useful for hiding shit from teachers. As he flipped the tape to Side Two, Bucky realized he’d never flipped a cassette tape in his entire life. There was something very satisfying about the physical feeling of popping the door, and pulling it out, and flipping it. Steve was a genius for thinking of this; it was quirky and weird and Bucky really loved it. He fucking loved everything about it.

He secretly listened to side two while Mrs. Craft drew a bunch of crap Bucky already knew how to do all over the whiteboard with multicolored Expo Markers. It was hard not to smile, which would have totally gotten him busted because _nobody_ smiles at imaginary numbers. Side Two was full of hopeful, happy songs and Bucky felt like he was channeling the giant waves of emotions Steve had been surfing since they became a thing. Try as he might, he couldn’t hold back the smile any longer.

“Mr. Barnes! Care to share what’s making you so happy today?” Mrs. Craft was hovering over his desk with her ‘ready-to-retire’ face looking pissed. Maybe a tad bit amused? Pissmused?

“He tricked Steve Rogers into switching teams.” That was some asshole Bucky didn’t even know yelling from the back of the class.

Bucky used the moment Mrs. Craft stepped past him towards the big-mouthed dickwad to begrudgingly slip the earbuds out.

“Mr. Tucker, that kind of comment won’t be tolerated.”

“Neither was the way they flaunted it this morning.” That was Rollins. Fucking Rollins. There were chuckles floating up all around him and he felt Skinner’s hand touch the middle of his back. And so it begins...

“Enough!” Mrs. Craft gave every single shitty student in that classroom the evil eye then pointed at Fucker and Bigger Fucker. “You two, stay after the bell!” She gently touched Bucky’s shoulder as she walked back to the board and he shoved the earbuds back in so he didn’t have to listen to the quiet rumble of shit talk. He didn’t even try to hide them. Incubus was playing and Bucky wondered why he and Steve couldn’t just live inside this song? Why they couldn’t exist in a perfect place where Brandon Boyd was swaying like he was tripping on killer mushrooms and they were surrounded by a grove of gently curving palm trees? Of course, Brandon wouldn’t be wearing a shirt because he and Stevie could definitely appreciate a little older-man-eye-candy on their Incubus beach. Why couldn’t they wear skimpy bathing suits, maybe even thong th-thong thong thongs, and spend hours digging each other as they stared deeply and stereotypically into each other eyes? Why couldn’t they stuff their faces with sour cream and onion Pringles and BLTs before sharing a cold can of Coke underneath a rainbow beach umbrella? Why couldn’t they just stay there; where everything was swelling choruses, bubbling happiness, exposed ass cheeks, and the smell of coconut scented sunscreen wafting off Steve’s naked skin? Bucky sighed and put his head down on his desk.

Sadly, he had to pay attention in Espanfro-yo because if Bucky fucked up this lame ass quiz his papachooli wasn’t gonna let him go on his hot date with Steve to the fancy El Zorro tailor. Daisy, such a high quality right hand gal, maybe mouthed him a couple correct answers across the aisle, but even without her assist Bucky thought he did pretty damn good. Especially considering his utter suckage at The Language of Love. Wait...was Spanish the language of love? Fuck, he didn’t even know that!

 _Finally_ the bell for lunch rang and he could see Steve! Steve! Stevie! Steve, Steve, Steve! Bucky cranked the volume and let the final song play during his treacherous journey along the edge of the snowy mountain pass to his super weird new table. He couldn’t hear what the posh orcs were saying as he traversed through the icy crowd but the mean glances were obvious. Buffy and The Plastics weren’t even attempting to hide their fake-nail finger points and he could read lips well enough to catch plenty of the complete and utter bullshit that was spewing from all directions. He looked onwards towards his final destination; the tables by the big windows where The Council of Elrond was in full multicultural effect. Bucky kept right on going with this Lord of the Rings shit and pictured Tony with a big Gandalf beard and grey pointy hat because it was a fabulous distraction to help him get past the final group of assholes making totally unoriginal rude gestures at him.

Stopping at the end of the main table Bucky took stock of the situation. Were these people now _his_ friends? Would he and Steve call them _their_ friends? Bucky assessed each face as the music blocked out everything else. For christ’s sake, Steve’s legendary second in command hung out with him in his favorite bathroom stall for twenty minutes! And his favorite spiky, purple tipped bestie was apparently holding secret therapy meetings with Sam and Steve! Secret meetings with his _boyfriend_ , Steve Mother Fucking Rogers! Skinner, Mr. ‘I’m so beyond this High School mediocrity’, was obviously doing _something_ with Lola Price, even if his only response to repeated inquiries about the situation was ‘no comment’. Peggy Carter wasn’t even giving him snotty Posh Spice looks anymore; she’d downgraded to mildly amused, and only slightly snotty Baby Spice stares. Then there was Daisy, in her navy blue baby doll dress with the over-the-shoulder straps and a tiny Pierce the Veil t-shirt underneath, sharing Moon Pies with Pepper, Sharon and Peggy; a Monster High Doll in the middle of three Barbies doling out Moon Pies! Seriously! Bucky blinked a few times in disbelief when Peter and Scott both waved at him, like he was their My Little Buddy doll or something, and Bruce Banner stopped calculating the relative gravity of black holes to give Bucky a genial nod. All of these kids gathered around in a circle, a few rectangles actually...but whatever, gathered around to support one another in their dangerous mission to defeat Sauromon. Did he and Steve really have the power to unite people like that? Jesus, he really needed to stop watching The Lord of the Rings over and over because his brain was one-hundred percent out of control with this Middle Earth shit right now. But Legolas was so damn hot! Huh, maybe he had a thing for archers? Fuck, Bucky was way over his daily deep thought limit, but as he surveyed the scene he couldn’t deny the magical difference between yesterday’s horrific lunchtime debacle and today’s less horrific and sorta hopeful lunchtime debacle.

Bucky plopped down next to Clint and ran his index finger along the tips of his full throttle mohawk before poking at the kickass shoulder muscles peeking out under the edge of his tank top. No matter how platonic they were, Bucky would always appreciate Clint Barton’s ridiculously defined shoulders when he wore torn-to-shit Black Flag tank tops, or any tank top. He was pretty sure Steve would agree and oogle right along with him. Despite Bucky’s incessant poking Clint kept right on chit chatting with Ezra, Sam and Tony like he’d always belonged there; like it wasn’t at all strange that he was stealing redskin potatoes, with some sort of green shit stuck all over them, off Sam’s tray with no repercussions whatsoever.

“Hey Sam Smith! Do you like your sexy new toy?” Tony hollered with a huge grin, obviously assuming the music was still playing. “I’m of course talking about the walkman, not the Captain. Wink wink.”

Bucky pulled out the earbuds so Stark would stop yelling ‘wink wink’ at him and was preparing to throw out a smartass comment in return, but that went right out the window when he spotted Steve marching towards him with his spectacular hair and his newly de-closeted attitude. Heads, eyes, and hands holding multigrain flatbread sandwiches layered with Grey Poupon and crisp romaine lettuce swiveled comically in Steve’s direction as he strolled right through the center. Steve’s supposed ‘friends’ throughout the lunchroom were saying things as he walked by; the kinds of hateful things that were usually directed towards Bucky: ‘he’s such a liar’, ‘fag’, ‘making out with trash’, ‘did you see that spectacle?’, ‘can you believe he’s gay?’, ‘such an embarrassment’, ‘I can’t believe I voted for him for Homecoming King!’. There was a flood of hate bubbling up, the size of the crowd covering up the source, and Bucky just wanted to put the headphones on Steve so he wouldn’t have to fucking deal with it. It was a burden Bucky learned to bear by building up thick skin and having friends and family support him when it got really bad, but it had taken _years_ . Mother Fucking years! And shit, it _still_ hurt! So for Steve, the school’s most revered jock, to suddenly have all that admiration and praise shift to whispered jabs was horrific. Why were these people so horrible?

Bucky felt so proud when Steve kept his head held high and walked right up to the table. Frank Castle was trailing after him and he looked like he was ready for some guerrilla warfare or some Good Morning Vietnam shit; all serious and brooding with his tray full of waffles and whip cream. He violently yanked a chair away from another table and parked himself next to a mystified Peter, which was...mystifying. Not Peter’s reaction; that was on point, but the fact that Castle didn’t go sit with Brock and Jack at the table behind Peggy and her clan was the definition of mystifying. What the hell was going on?

The entire room was watching to see what Steve’s next move would be...everyone! Bucky suddenly felt scared; maybe it was what happened yesterday, maybe it was everyone watching, maybe it was everything...but Steve simplified it all by dropping into his spot next to Bucky, easy as pie, and saying, “hi babe.”

“Oh ballsy Steven, I like it”. Ezra chewed his cheek and nodded approvingly.

Ezra was right! It _was_ ballsy. Steve just said, plain as day, ‘hi babe’. Hi babe! It was distractingly suburban.  

Tony patted his hand on the splitter like it was his electronic baby and bragged, “My brilliant alterations on this tiny time capsule worked I see.”

“I think it had more to do with Steve’s perfectly planned ‘Say Anything’ moment, but yes Tony,” Bucky chuckled and condescendingly patted his hand on top of Stark’s, “thanks for the assist.”

Steve gave him the moony eyes. “You thought it was a ‘Say Anything’ moment?”

“Stevie it was perfect.” Bucky let his hand trail along the back of Steve’s white cotton t-shirt and appreciated the feeling of his Baywatch muscles. He was touching Steve in public! He was fucking touching Steve in public! Shaking his head to get back on track Bucky grabbed a breadstick instead of Steve’s waist so he could resume communication. “You stretched that wee wittle boom box skyward to woo me with your song and I’m positive it made John Cusack jealous.”

“Oh a mini boom box would be so cute! I want a mini boombox!” Scott was nodding way too much as he blasted out a thousand words all at once. “But really, look at you two! You’re so sappy! In a good way. I’m not saying sappy is bad. Its awesome! Yesterday there was no sap, but now look! Sappy everywhere. It’s fuckin’ awesome.” He shoved a huge piece of whole wheat waffle into his mouth and gave them both a thumbs up while he chewed. Bucky really liked him.

Sam swatted Clint’s hand away from the last of his mutant potato chunks and whispered, “you doing okay Steve?” Bucky’s Yoda brain instantly translated this to ‘Doing okay you are Steve Rogers?’ and he must have accidentally said that out loud because he got kicked. Sam Wilson kicked him! Fuck, a serious Wookie is he!

“Yeah, I mean, obviously people are being jerks but I’m trying to ignore it.”

Clint made another unsuccessful attempt at Sam’s last potato. “Good call Steve. I’ve decided you guys are all cool but fuck the rest of these pricks!” He lifted his hand, with its black fingerless glove and a silver ring on each finger and flipped the bird to the entire lunchroom. Frank Castle actually laughed.

Tony’s manic button switched on and he got right in Clint’s face to holler, “you’re so right Furiosa, get your post-apocalyptic truck ready to run over these homophobes because I’m about to disown three quarters of these War Boys! They only like me for my booze anyway!” Bucky could only stare in shock as Tony hopped onto his chair and straightened the buttons on his red and black plaid suit. “Disowning protocol commencing in three, two, one!” Tony yelled loud enough for every douche in the entire lunchroom to hear him. “Attention! All you homophobic closed minded jerks. I know that’s not all of you, some of you are strong PFLAG supporters or hanging out in a closet of your very own, but you can bet your ass that this public service announcement is for everyone else!” He pointed his finger around the whole room in a wide accusatory sweep. “No more Wonderland Stark parties for you! You hear me?! The Mad Hatter is rescinding your open invitations. It seems that many of you assholes have failed to notice but it’s twenty-sixteen for christ’s sake! If you even so much a _think_ about showing up on my open-minded doorstep, I _will_ have my very impressive security guards toss your bigoted asses all the way to middle America, where you can hang out wearing red baseball hats and spend the rest of your sad lives ‘making America great again’ with all the other unevolved monkeys. Actually, I take that back, that’s a disservice to monkeys. Have Milania show you her tits while you’re stomping around in your homophobic cornfields and go fuck yourselves!” Tony jumped down and slammed his fists on the table with a crinkly-eyed smile. He really liked Tony Stark too.

It was eerily quiet, and eyes were bulging Total Recall style everywhere, until Brock shoved his tray off the other side of his table, almost nailing Charlie and Harry as the mess crashed to the floor. He stopped to point at Tony with a sneer before flipping off Frank and storming out the emergency exit. Bucky felt the comforting strength of Steve’s hand slipping onto his thigh as the lunch ladies rushed to shut off the alarm. The shrill alarm made Bucky think about what Frank had said to him, and he interlocked his fingers with Steve’s until it finally stopped.

Tony took a huge bite of his sandwich, like he didn’t have a care in the world, and mumbled, “There goes the worst one. Good riddance Mike Pence!” Then lifted his flatbread into the air and said, “Well, I think it’s great. I’m proud of you Steve. Everyone, let’s celebrate our newly liberated gay leader and his Punky Brewster legwarmer kitten and raise our sandwiches, pretzels and lightly breaded cod in a toast!”

Sam smacked Tony’s arm before stage whispering, “Man, that’s a little over the top.”

“When’s he not over the top?” Ezra lifted an entire piece of breaded fish into the air with an amused grin.

“I’ll toast my salami on rye to that.” Skinner smiled at Bucky as he closed his laptop and snickered, “Hey Daisy, raise your Moon Pies to the sky!”

God, Bucky was so fucking thankful for his friends; for this newly united council of kids surrounded them with cod, waffles, flatbread sandwiches, potato chips and a shit-load of Moon Pies. Bucky watched the look on Steve’s face as his friends, no... _their_ friends, and even Frank in a half-assed bored kinda way, held up their assorted food items in a toast. Steve started turning pink and Bucky could tell he was about to cry as he sucked in a few overwhelmed breaths.

Tony gave Steve a tiny smile before quickly looking at the floor and sniffing. Bucky saw sincerity in his expression that he didn’t even think Stark was capable of; it was a millisecond but it was there. Before Bucky could really think about that hint of sadness, Tony recovered and shot his flatbread high into the air and regally gave his toast. “To being young, to making new friends, to standing up for what’s right, to kicking ass, to new adventures, to first love, and to first gay love! Cheers!”

Clint kicked Bucky’s clunky boot under the table and gave a little nod towards Steve. He was sucking in a few overwhelmed breaths and looking at Bucky in a way that...

There it was...Bucky’s final answer hit him right in the gut and he knew just what to do. Surrounded by flying food and a united council of unlikely allies he rewound the tape to just the right spot in the final song and pressed the sticky pause button. The turquoise earbuds went back into his ears and he slipped the patriotic stars and stripes headphones over Steve’s spectacular hair.  When he pushed play Bucky let his hands drift to Steve’s shoulders and the words consumed them both:

 

‘We’re gonna seize this moment

And write our own history

And give it everything we’ve got

Cuz this is our chance to breath

We shook up the world,

Believe in me, ‘cause i believe in you’

 

Steve’s eyes were hopeful as he squeezed Bucky’s bicep, just above the red cuff. There was nothing else he could do except simply nod and give his first love a simple smile; because the answer was so very simple. It was a yes. Yes to the whole messy journey. Yes to Steve. Simply yes...

Yes.

*****

 

Steve was realizing that when he suggested running up Alexander’s credit card to buy designer suits for the dance he didn’t think about the reality of that exercise in rebellion. But now, sinking deep into the burgundy leather couch cushions in the decadent private dressing room at Tom Ford’s studio, reality had arrived. The ceilings were two stories high with exposed duct work and endless rows of parallel rafters. Every last inch was painted stark white and several lazy ceiling fans dropped from the beams and spun with hypnotizingly slow centrifugal force. Silver racks of impeccably cut suits in both classic colors and unique patterns lined the exposed brick walls, and shelves holding hats, watches, ties, shirts, sunglasses and shoes rose from the far end of the room, stretching at least nine feet towards the ceiling. There was a cherry colored wood ladder that slid along a smooth track designed to reach and retrieve each overpriced status symbol from its perch.

This space, belonging to one of Alexander’s preferred designers, had been part of Steve’s ghost world for the better part of six years. Horrific memories of being dragged here by one of the nameless revolving door assistants responsible for his maintenance to have another stoic suit, that he wasn’t allowed to choose, forced over his true form. Each suit was another set of fabric bindings designed to hold him in place for another carefully orchestrated press event. Every appearance required mastery of his fake smile and each layer made it harder to recall what was underneath. Steve could remember that all he’d wanted to do was hang out with his friends or play video games like a normal kid; all he’d wanted to do was feel the Mickey Mouse pajamas his mom bought for him when he was seven hugging his soul. But all he got was severe and stressed people shuttling him in and out of this room to dress him and undress him then dress him again, primping him like a mannequin without a hint of internal permission. Today that all changed.

The entire space was transformed, not by the movement of physical objects or the rearranging of furniture; but rather by the presence of an otherworldly entity. Steve ran the edges of his perfectly clipped fingernails along the back of the couch to ground himself as he watched Roman pull and pin and tuck the suit around Bucky’s beautiful body. It was surreal really, seeing Bucky in this space. The way Bucky’s fingertips had cautiously touched the shoulder of each suit as he struggled to grant himself permission to pick one, was one of the most charming moments Steve had even witnessed. The way he touched the wools and silks and cottons with a combination of reverence and complete confusion reminded him of a space alien, new to planet Earth, touching a blade of spring grass or running its finger through pebble filled dirt for the first time. This was a new and foreign world to Bucky, one that Steve probably wouldn’t be inhabiting much longer, so reshaping his painful memories of this place with the lightness and curiosity of this Starboy from Saturn made him happy.

Bucky was standing on the raised circular platform in the center of the room and his presence and energy altered the entire space. He was still wearing his black beanie and his hair was wildly sticking out from underneath the edges in every direction. The bright pink sunglasses were still parked haphazardly on top of his head, sitting crookedly as they pushed at his Pride pin. Roman had loaned him a pair of completely over-designed patent leather loafers because clunky combat boots with steel toes weren’t exactly conducive to correctly measuring Bucky’s inseam. Watching the alien twisting and tapping the slippery soles of the foreign shoes to an imaginary beat, while Roman chided him to stand still, gave Steve an idea. He pretended to reach for a magazine on the glass coffee table when in reality he was on a reconnaissance mission to dig around in Bucky’s discarded boots to figure out his shoe size. While the pinning and measuring and tucking continued Roman looked highly amused and kept smiling at the floor. Steve just smiled openly, because he was buying his gorgeous boyfriend a Tom Ford suit on Alexander’s dime and his tailor was his co-conspirator.

Bucky’s voice startled him and he yanked his hand out of the stinky boot. “Steve, this is fucking insane.”

Steve could only look at him on that pedestal and appreciate the display. “You’re right, it is. But you look like a rock god.”

Roman was working diligently cinching in the panels on the back of the jacket, and nodded vigorously in agreement. “I fit Pharrell for the MTV Video Awards a few months ago and we put him in something similar. Trust me when I say, he had nothing on you.”

Steve chuckled because when he made the appointment yesterday to pick out his tuxedo for the Met Gala he’d specifically asked to talk to Roman. He’d thought a lot about who the best person for this very special mission would be and Roman  instantly came to mind. He was younger, probably late twenties, with a heavily styled undercut and an attitude that subtly shifted whenever Alexander left the room. Steve had always suspected he wasn’t a fan of Mr. Pierce, and he’d been right; more than right actually. The smile that spread across his cherubic face when Steve held open the door to allow Bucky to enter the studio was wickedly gleeful. He‘d walked right up to them and stretched out his hand to greet Bucky.

“Oh honey, we’re going to have _so_ much fun.” Roman winked at Steve, and oh...wow, he’d definitely selected the right man for the job.

He ushered them into the showroom and started pulling suits for Steve and Bucky to look at. Of course Bucky would be tentative allowing his fingertips to select a suit, but Steve felt his adrenaline surging as his eyes landed on a dandy black pinstripe three piece.

Roman pulled it out and held it up for Steve’s inspection and when he touched the buttons and nodded it signalled the official start of his rebellion. This would be the first suit Steve had ever picked for himself and Alexander would absolutely hate it. Bucky offered support and smiles as Steve paired it with a blue and black striped tie and a slightly deeper blue pocket square. It was fun. Plain and simple and it felt like Anarchy.

The suit Bucky’s virgin fingers finally landed on was a shiny and pristine medium blue which contrasted perfectly with Bucky’s olive skin and dark hair. Roman helped him select a pale blue shirt and a grey and black striped tie to complement the suit, and Steve felt thankful as Roman layered each piece over Bucky’s form they did nothing to obscure the alien. Steve’s mouth watered as Roman added the final pins and clips to make it fit like a glove. Jesus christ, he was a sight to behold.

“This is too much Steve.”

“It’s really not.”

Bucky rolled his shoulders awkwardly and cracked up. “You need to know, the only suit I’ve ever worn was in eighth grade for Clint’s smelly old Uncle’s funeral and we totally bought it at Target. I think it cost $69.99.”

Roman was doing a final check on the length of the pants, kneeling at the feet of The King of The Misfits, but when Bucky said that sentence he snapped his eyes up immediately and spoke real truth. “Looking like you do? Honey, you were _born_ to wear suits.” He patted one of Bucky’s shiny shoes and continued, “the two of you are going to look stunning standing next to each other.”

Woah. Woah, that compliment took Steve a long second to digest. That sentence was the first public acknowledgement, outside of his close friends, outside of school, that Steve was in a relationship with Bucky Barnes. He let it hang in the air; Steve was in a gay relationship with Bucky Barnes. He took a deep breath and realized it was okay. Great even. Liberating.

“I don’t think I was born to wear thousand dollar suits,” Bucky laughed and fiddled with his out of control hair. “You realize I’m a Russian orphan right?”

Roman chuckled under his breath and side-eyed Steve, but managed to maintain his professionalism and not mention the real price tag. Bucky’s naivete was adorable. Steve shifted on the plush couch and the immediate pins and needles in his left leg told him it was time to get up. An innocent enough decision that resulted in him painfully bumping the burn on his arm against a rough throw pillow. Just like that the black bird landed on his shoulder, wrapping his wings tightly around Steve’s skull and urging him with a hissing whisper to run the bill up higher. The feathered appendages directed his gaze to the showcases along the far wall and he found himself transported there, staring at the sunglasses.

He rapped the glass countertop three times with his knuckles, before ordering his fingers to shake off the inky feathers with an impromptu drum roll. When the raven flew to the top shelf above the carefully folder cashmere scarves, watching but not controlling, Steve felt safe enough to ask over his shoulder, “what’s your favorite style of sunglasses Buck?”

“Umm, I’ve always wanted a badass pair like Ponch on ‘Chips’. You know, the sexy Latino motorcycle cop with the mirrored aviators?”

Steve had no idea who Ponch was or what the heck ‘Chips’ was, but he spotted the perfect pair immediately. He could picture Bucky wearing the shiny silver shades with the polarized mirrors as his gorgeous thighs straddled and squeezed a ferocious motorcycle and Steve added that to his Bucket List.

“Go ahead and grab them Steve,” Roman had stepped back to double check his work, “I’m almost done here.”

Steve eyeballed the bird, whose pulsating black form was now balancing on a stark white fan blade as it spun slowly around in and out of view. Just when Steve thought he was gone he spun back to stare at him with his beady red eyes. Steve took five deep breaths and closed his eyes, willing the sharp talons and the pointy beak to disappear. Five, Four, three, two...one. He was afraid to open his eyes. Not today. Not now. Please…

“Stevie?”

When he opened his eyes the fan was empty, and Bucky was looking at him with his cherished button eyes and Steve could breath again. He moved towards Bucky with the four-hundred dollar sunglasses and handed them to Roman. “Could you hold these for a moment please?”

“Absolutely. They’re the perfect choice Steve.”

Bucky stood before him on the pedestal, the shiny blue fabric clinging to him in all the right places, and Steve stepped up to join the alien on the sparkling yellow and gold rings of his home planet. He carefully lifted the pink Ray-Ban knockoffs off his starboy, followed by the black beanie, and offered a small smile before slipping them both onto his own head; a symbolic intermingling of world’s. Steve let his fingers run delicately through Bucky’s crushed hat hair, pushing the wildness back over his ears. “The thing is Bucky, there’s something about your ridiculous collection of goofy pajama pants combined with your bird nest morning hair that drives me wild. I have a whole list of things that I love: your silly t-shirts that make me wonder where the hell you found them in your size, the rips and patches on your jeans that create a map of who you are and where you’ve been, and these amazing pink glasses.” Steve reached up and felt the cheap plastic from this completely new angle and laughed. “I adore these silly sunglasses. I love it all Bucky. I love the way you look every second of every moment that my eyes are lucky enough see you. Baby, you take my breath away.” Steve returned to that magical moment Saturday night when he pulled Bucky’s hair into a loose braid before stripping him of his candy, and he let his fingers repeat the motion. “But right now, in this suit, you’re a different kind of masterpiece.”

Bucky stopped breathing for a second and whispered, “Steve…”

He leaned forward to tenderly kiss Bucky’s cheek before extending his hand for Roman to pass him the sunglasses. For some reason Elton John’s “Your Song” floated across his mind as he carefully placed the mirrored frames on Bucky’s angular face. Steve caught a glimpse of himself in the reflection and was shocked to see that his face looked joyful. It was an foreign expression that hadn’t stared back at him in over six years and seeing it layered on top of Bucky’s smiling face made so much sense. The melody ‘I hope you don’t mind that I put down in words, how wonderful life is now that you’re in the world’ matched his motion as he stepped off the concentric rings to join his tailor a few feet back.

“Holy shit.” Roman forgot every professional rule and was openly gawking.

Steve cracked up and looped an arm over poor Roman’s shoulder because there was no denying it. “Holy shit is right.”

Like a painting has no awareness of its own beauty, Bucky just kept right on being Bucky. The fabrics and costumes of the rich had no effect on his inner being as he wiggled around in his new skin and managed to shake off some of Steve’s overblown sappiness. “How the hell am I supposed to dance in this getup? We _are_ gonna dance aren’t we? You posh folk do dig the sticks out of your asses and bust a move at these things right? _Right?_ ”

Roman completely gave up after that remark and doubled over in laughter as his round cheeks turned a delightful shade of pink. It was hard to keep it together but Steve managed to dryly reply, “yeah, we rich folk dance.”

“Thank fucking god!” Bucky tipped his chin towards the stark white ceiling and the angle of his chiseled jaw juxtaposed with the gleam of the silver sunglasses was Earth shattering. He shimmied his shoulders and said, “put on a song Stevie! I dare you! Make it a good one, I need to test this shit.”

Oh, that was a dare Steve was happy to complete. He pulled out his phone and quickly cued up Tech 9’s ‘Hood go crazy’, because if his boyfriend was going to run a dance test in the middle of Tom Ford’s studio it should be, as Bucky would articulately put it, a mother fucking dance test! He hit play and held the phone into the air, ‘Say Anything’ style, yes twice in one day, then added his own ‘I dare you’ smile to the scene.

Bucky, in those reflective motorcycle cop shades, bit his lip before nodding. “Oh, I see how you like to play Mr. Rogers. Challenge fucking accepted!” He undid the jacket buttons with a cocky flourish as a few curious salespeople peeked their heads into the room. Steve had the volume all the way up and Roman was somewhere between shocked and excited. God, this was going to be so damn good! Bucky slowly started nodding his head and dropped his center of gravity lower, initiating the same slow roll of his torso that sucked Steve into its licorice web in Stark’s candy covered basement. The blue sheen of the suit was catching rays of sunlight as his hands ran up and down the lapels in time with the bass heavy groove. Steve could see the line of Bucky’s dick pressed tight against the fabric and he needed to personally write Roman a very sincere thank-you-note for that mind-blowing alteration. Jesus. Then, when the chorus dropped Bucky just went for it; sharp tics of his shoulders counterbalancing the hard motion of his hips, steel blue eyes peeking over the top of the aviators as he licked salaciously across his lower lip, rolling his neck in half time while he let his ass ride the beat, crossing the shiny loafers and spinning around like Chris Brown before settling into an authentic dirty south hip hop groove in his suit full of pins. Steve heard the women behind him gasping, and his unstoppable and overwhelming feelings about Bucky Barnes became perfectly clear. He loved him. He really did.

“Good god,” Roman made no effort to hide his appreciation for Bucky Barnes dancing in that suit.

Steve said, “yeah. That’s what made me realize I’m gay.”

“I can see how that would happen.” Roman pulled his phone awkwardly out his back pocket, fumbling with it in his obvious state of shock. “I feel like Tom should see this.” He yelled to Bucky over the music, “May I take a picture for Tom?”

“For who? Who’s Tom?” Bucky stopped dancing, shrugged and scrunched up his nose in confusion. “Hi ladies.” Bucky waved at the four women who were peeking around the doorframe before rolling his hips one more time. They made a hasty exit, but not before they giggled like ten-year-olds watching their first soft-core porno on cable after their parents went to bed. Steve marveled at the fact that Bucky had the power to easily make four very attractive, much older women giggle.  

Bucky shook out his arms and shrugged his shoulders innocently, like he hadn’t just given those women, and Roman, the time of their lives. “Well, it passed the dance test, which I’ve gotta tell you, is a real surprise. The extra price tag must include Magical Footloose Readiness.” He looked himself over like he was confused by his own appearance. “You know you can put this fancy shit on me but underneath I’m still wearing my amazing ‘Wolverine’ boxers, right?”

Roman paused with the phone half way up to take the picture. “Wolverine boxers?”

“Oh yeah, I was super mad at Steve this morning so I wore all my angry clothes. Wolverine’s definitely angry, plus he’s got the adamantium claws...” Bucky explained this as if it was the most ordinary and obvious fashion choice on his planet; as if everyone in the galaxy coordinated clothes with emotions.

The giddiness Steve felt picturing Bucky picking out his angriest boxers made him blurt out, “and that right there, is why I adore you.”

Bucky gave Roman some sort of supermodel smize as the camera clicked then said, “by the way Stevie. I like you in my beanie. Makes you look tough; ready to kick ass.”

Touching the soft hat Steve somehow felt the strength woven into it. “I _feel_ like I’m ready to kick ass.”

Roman helped Bucky slide the jacket down his arms and he toed off the shiny loafers. “Well, you should totally keep it. You know, to help you on your badass missions.”

The feeling of the hat snug around his head felt right; like wearing something that belonged to Bucky magically infused him with strength; that somehow their interplanetary coupling increased the fortitude of his DNA. Steve pulled it down a little further on his head. “I think I’ll do that.”

As Roman tallied up the limited edition tuxedo with the black and lavender paisley jacket, both custom tailored suits, the cost of the alterations, two dress shirts, a checkered bow tie, two pocket squares, two striped ties, two belts, a pocket-chain, cuff links, and the ‘Chips’ sunglasses, Steve felt something like nervous glee. His co-conspirator tried to discreetly slide the invoice across the counter for Steve’s approval, but Bucky plowed into his side and pushed him over a full two feet so he could see. Of course, his reaction was priceless. Classic shock: completely frozen with his mouth hanging open and his eyes bugging out of his head. Since his hair was still pulled back Steve got the added bonus of literally watching every last drop of color drain out of his face.

“Holy mother fucking sweet jesus mary mother of god!” Bucky might have said that loud enough to cause the George Clooney look-alike perusing ties with The Trophy Wife that Plastic Surgery Created to scoff in complete disgust. “Steve! That piece of paper says twenty-nine thousand dollars!!!”

Steve bit his bottom lip and yanked Alexander’s black American Express card out of his wallet. His pulse was racing and he could feel the tempo of his brainwaves increasing, his vision becoming sharper. “Yeah, it sure does.” He handed it over to Roman who quickly slid it through the machine with a snap.

“That’s...holy fuck. Holy fuck Steve! Holy fucking fuck! I don’t...”

Steve could only grin and do the the funny ‘shhhh’ thing on Bucky’s lips, rubbing his index finger all over his dimpled chin and back and forth over his shocked lips and under his cute little shocked nose. “Shhhhhhhhhhhh”.

Bucky looked like a very pale and very innocent sweet little cake, and Steve suddenly understood why Clint nicknamed him ‘Cupcake’. He was big blue eyed, pale buttercream frosting, with an overabundance of rainbow sprinkles. As he lifted the electronic pen Steve let it hover momentarily over the screen while pausing to think about what he was inviting and the course he was setting. This digital line would be the catalyst; the middle finger flicking over the first domino in the crooked row that was his life; the final stroke to initiate the irreversible chain reaction. Grasping that pen Steve’s heart began to slow and he felt nothing but sweet relief. He wove his fingers through Bucky’s right hand and signed his name with conviction.

He dropped the plastic pen and whispered, “I’ve earned it.”

*****

 

Steve knew he had to take Bucky home, but he didn’t want to. Something about the memory of Bucky closing the red door while Steve was left outside...it just sucked. Maybe that was it; taking Bucky home wasn’t the problem, Steve simply didn’t want to take Bucky home and leave him there. He didn’t want to allow the two of them to be separated by physical space or the unstoppable beats of time or the chaos of their separate lives. The truth of the matter was: standing under this hulking concrete overpass at the very edge of Brooklyn, listening to the sounds of the 278 rumbling above them with the full spectrum of colors radiating from the graffiti all around them, Steve already felt like he was home.

Bucky was laughing and jumping around like a five-year-old kid on Christmas morning. He had a can of spray paint in each hand and was putting chaotically perfect finishing touches on the crazy giant face he made. Steve was still wearing Bucky’s beanie with the pink sunglasses perched on top of his head and he was standing back appreciating the scene. The concrete column he was leaning against grounded him as he watched Bucky’s impish grafitti dance; he was Jackson Pollock gone punk without all the alcohol. There was a fine mist of spray paint floating backwards in the wind transporting lime green and cherry red speckles through the air. In the rays of sunlight Steve watched the tiny polka dots landing in haphazard patterns all over the oversized grey sweatshirt he’d given Bucky to protect his clothes. He guessed he couldn’t be faulted for his failure to anticipate the whirlwind that was his boyfriend with multiple cans of spray paint. He just laughed to himself as Bucky unleashed a line of red right into the wind. The sweatshirt might be saving his ‘Knife Party’ shirt but it was doing nothing to save Bucky’s jeans, or his boots, or his hair, or his skin. The universe was obviously overruling his attempt to cover Bucky with dull grey and conspiring with the Mother Nature to blow the colorful molecules back on the outside where they belonged.

Steve had painted the word ‘Alive’ in sharp intersecting letters using a gradient of bright yellows fading subtly into rich oranges. The transition was contained by solid black outlines and the irony wasn’t lost on him. It was intentional. It looked so different next the the chaotic explosion and lifeforce of Bucky’s masterpiece. Side by side they were polar opposites but somehow, where Bucky’s vivacious marks crossed the boundaries of his work, they meshed perfectly. Bipolar entities fusing together in the middle to create a better whole, like they’d always belonged together but simply didn’t know about the other’s existence. Until now.

It was a huge oval, well close to oval, with a primitive face scrawled in messy lines using red and yellow and green and pink and black. The marks were sprawling and overlapping and Bucky had attempted to draw a hat; at least Steve thought it was supposed to be a hat. Now he was swaying back and forth, his legs spread in a wide stance, and throwing random dots and spirals and zigzags all over the wall. They were sprouting and evolving into undefinable shapes from all sides. When Bucky’s pink and green lines spread out over Steve’s neat letters, punching holes in the solid black outlines, it made Steve smile.

“It looks like Basquiat,” Steve yelled across the abandoned space so it echoed against the crumbling supports.

Bucky sprayed six more neon yellow wiggly lines and hollered back, “Who the fuck is Basket What?”

Steve laughed outright. “A painter, a famous painter. He actually was from Brooklyn and he made faces like that.”

Scrunching up his nose and pointing at his painting Bucky chuckled. “You mean horrible kindergarten faces made by someone who never touched a can of spray paint until roughly forty-five minutes ago?”

Steve really looked at Bucky’s work and had to admit that could actually be a fair analysis of Basquait. Huh. “I guess when you put it that way...yes?”

Three more spirals yellow and red and green exploded around the top before he turned to Steve. “Well, put my shit in a museum next to Basket What and give me a couple million dollars then!” Standing triumphantly on top of the giant broken concrete slab he proudly gestured to his work. “It’s a picture of you by the way. See the beanie and the sweet shades? Plus check out the distinctively handsome All-American good looks!”

“It’s like looking in a mirror,” Steve deadpanned.

Bucky took a dramatic bow and spread his arms out wide, holding a golden can in each hand, and the graffiti covered overpass framed him perfectly. The priceless Art that is Bucky was certainly worthy of hanging in a museum next to Basquait, Picasso, Warhol and Kehinde Wiley; an interactive exhibit of movement and energy; a punk rock portrait escaping the edges of his gilded frame to organically expand across the walls. He was curling lines migrating onto the neighboring paintings and tracing their contours and brushstrokes, using his brilliance to enhance what was already there. Bucky was an un-confinable Work of Art.

Pushing off the column Steve walked across the rock and garbage covered ground, his sneakers navigating the uneven terrain of crushed cans, cigarette butts, and broken concrete before climbing onto the slab. Taking the cans from Bucky’s hands he threw them haphazardly towards his backpack and they watched as one of them flipped in the air so it hit the nozzle when it landed. They laughed in unison as it sprayed a cherry red line across the broken concrete and onto Steve’s backpack before rolling to a stop. Perhaps the universe bent to Steve’s will sometimes; an unknown force reaching into his imagination to plagiarize his ideas.

The powerful craving rolling up inside him was almost unbearable; not the urge to take from Bucky, but the desire to _give_ to him. Steve let his hand trail down the paint speckled sweatshirt then grabbed the loose cotton in a tight bunch at the hem. “Bucky, I want to do something.”

Bucky’s eyebrows shot up and he glanced comically down at Steve’s hold, then back to his face. “We are doing something?”

“Something else.”

Steve started breathing heavier because Bucky was so close and he could smell him, something like sandalwood and soap, and god Steve wanted him so bad. He just wanted. “Buck, I want to make you feel good.”

“Ummm,” Bucky rocked forward on the round toes of his loosely laced boots, the tongues falling forward and his jeans bunching around the tops like soft-serve blueberry ice cream overflowing crunchy waffle cones.

When Steve used his hold to gently tug on the sweatshirt Bucky fell towards him, their chests bumping, but Steve didn’t move an inch. He felt solid as he whispered against Bucky’s lips, “and I want you to let me.”

“Ummm,” Bucky murmured and Steve felt him sway on his feet a little.

He kissed a trail across Bucky’s jaw, skipping his tongue from one paint speckle to the next in a sensual dot-to-dot until he reached a green mark beneath his ear. Steve nibbled lightly on the soft skin of his earlobe and breathed, “but only if you want me to.”

Steve started hearing waves of colorful music as he watched Bucky make the decision. Pairing music with his reality was something his brain had always undertaken of its own accord, but this time his cognitive pathways fired together to create overlapping layers of swirling rainbow colored sounds in an explosion of Synesthesia. They swirled around his beautiful boyfriend in indescribable currents and Steve prayed his senses would never disconnect. Their eyes remained locked as he released his hold on the sweatshirt to unzip his own black hoodie. As Steve squatted down to spread the fabric across the concrete he felt nothing but awe as Bucky knelt down in front of him, bowing his head a little and smiling. Swells of yellow, green and red sounds overwhelmed Steve’s senses as this gorgeous boy lowered his body to lay down before him. He was succulent, like a rare ripe fruit and Steve just wanted to peel him and lick up all the juices.

Both of them inhaled the open air under the busy Brooklyn freeway as Steve ran his hands firmly up the length of Bucky’s bent legs. The fall sun was peeking through the negative spaces between the support beams to stamp geometric patterns of shadow and light across their space. He traced his fingertip around the perimeter of the perfect parallelogram shining across Bucky’s hips before pushing up his shirt to allow the sunny shape to illuminate the skin on his belly too. Unbuckling Bucky’s pants it dawned on Steve that this was the first time he was going to see him without the cover of darkness or the haze of alcohol and weed. He was seeing something brand new in the golden light as he slid Bucky’s pants and his ‘Wolverine’ boxers just below his ass.

“Ignore Hugh Jackman,” Bucky said with a strong exhale.

“Oh trust me,” Steve said wrapping his hand around Bucky’s already hardening cock, “that won’t be a problem.”

“Oh jesus Steve, I wasn’t really prepared for…”

Steve slid his mouth onto him and he shut right up. The first time he’d put Bucky into his mouth he’d been surrounded by a blanket of stars and had scary bunnies snuggled on his feet to help him ignore the pain radiating across his forehead and pulsating through his ribcage. That was completely different than what he was doing under this bridge. The shock of it was gone; the shock that he was touching another guy, the shock that he _wanted_ to touch another guy...it was all gone and replaced by gratitude that he was allowed to touch Bucky like this.

Inside the geometry of the sunny shape he could appreciate every stunning detail of Bucky’s body. It was like looking through a powerful microscope to observe and catalogue the subtle changes in the texture of his skin as it stretched across his anatomy, and to discover the fine little hairs that were only visible when they caught the light. There were three tiny freckles recreating Orion’s belt just above his left hip and a tiny mole just inside the lip of his bellybutton. Steve ran his tongue along the protruding veins that ran from Bucky’s adonis lines to his groin and could actually feel his heartbeat. He made sure the hoodie was underneath Bucky before pulling his pants down to his knees.

Steve let him lay there for a long minute, cock fully hard and exposed to the crisp fall air, before he spoke. “Are you okay Buck? Is this okay?”

Bucky lifted his head to look at him, then stared at his exposed body. Steve could see how quickly the breaths were moving in and out of his chest as his ribs expanded and contracted in the sunlight. “Yeah, yeah I’m good. This is...” he lowered his head letting his muppet hair expand past the fabric to fan out on the concrete slab, “fuck...I’m good, yes.”

Bucky’s black leather belt was hanging from the belt loops and Steve thought about black spider webs. He remembered the long lines of fabric dragging in curving patterns through the crunching leaves in front of Bucky’s house and Steve just did it. He knew his own red canvas belt would be softer, easier to wrap, so he tugged his belt from its anchors and stretched it between his hands in a tight line, allowing himself to finally fall into the relief of the trap. “I’d like you to put your hands above your head and cross them at the wrists. Can you do that for me baby?”

There was a pause followed by a brief look of shock and Steve thought he’d pushed too far...but then a wicked grin spread across Bucky’s lips and his hands snapped up to form a perfect X before his eyes rolled back in his head.

Damn. That was all Steve could think as he pushed his boyfriend’s legs flat so he could straddle his chest. He could stare at Bucky like this for a lifetime. When Steve leaned over to slide the red web underneath his wrists Bucky tried to lift his head and nuzzle Steve through his jeans but that wasn’t what this was about. “No, stay still sweetheart. This is about you.”

And he listened so perfectly, a little gasp escaping his lips as Steve looped the belt around and through the X before securing it tightly. He’d never done anything like this in his entire life. Staring at the criss crossing webs he felt...what was he doing? The hard line of his cock pressing against his jeans answered that question: he was finally allowing his urges to lead him but with every move his conscious mind asked questions. Was it okay to put Bucky in this position? Was he a deviant? Would Bucky think less of him? What would his primal instinct tell him to do next? When he stood up to admire his work and saw the blissed out expression on Bucky’s face the answers didn’t matter; he wanted to make Bucky look like that all the time.

“If you don’t like something tell me. Tell me and I’ll stop.” And with that command in place Steve pushed Bucky’s knees up to his chest and did something he’d been thinking about since his drive home on Sunday; something he’d been lusting for. He ran his tongue right up Bucky’s ass and proceeded to lick him and suck him and finger him until he was writhing and begging to come.

A fire engine roared to life in the near distance as Steve heard Bucky starting to mumble unintelligibly. As the siren got closer Steve’s desire to devour Bucky crescendoed in tandem as he pulled one leg over his shoulder, letting the other fit snugly under his armpit and let him wait there a moment; exposed. Listening as the soundwaves got closer and closer together Steve said, “don’t come until I say so. You’re so pretty like this Bucky and I want to watch you just a little bit longer. Can you do that for me baby?”

Steve didn’t touch him, not even a fingertip, as he waited for an answer from the beautiful alien who was willingly submitting to him. Oh god...he was submitting. This was submission.

“Fuck. Yeah. I can...fuck, um, god.”

The realization that Bucky Barnes was submitting to him under a crumbling bridge, surrounded by the rebellious explosions of artists working under the cover of darkness, made Steve feel both shocked and incredibly powerful. When Steve figured out exactly where to touch him to make him moan and how to pull back so he didn’t come, he felt like the commander of a formidable ship. Bucky’s arms bound above his head, his legs pressed flat and bound by his pants, and the sound of his moans as he came perfectly all over the cement on command; it was addictive.

But then Bucky started mumbling something; something that was not English. He was repeating a few mysterious words with low rolling syllables and Steve lunged up to cradle his face. Bucky’s blue eyes were hazy. He looked wasted.

“Bucky, oh my god, shit, shit! Did I hurt you?”

“No, mmm, good.” His lips curled up in a cheshire cat smile and Steve was confused and scared because Bucky was pressing his hips against his crotch and his head was lolling to the side as he said something else Steve didn’t understand.

“Buck, jesus, let me undo your arms. Oh shit. Shit...”

He pressed himself harder against Steve’s crotch and muttered, “nyet, no. I like it.”

“Bucky you seem…”

“Shhhh,” he purred as he finally focused his eyes, “please kiss me.”

Steve let his fingers slide down to cradle Bucky’s head, giving him a final look to make sure he was okay, then he did as his boyfriend requested. The synergy as their lips ran over one another made Steve light headed and he took his time licking across Bucky’s tongue and feeling the ridges on his slightly crooked teeth before nibbling on his bottom lip. He relished the feeling of carefully releasing Bucky’s wrists from the tangle of the spider web as he rubbed the muscles in his arms in long soothing strokes. He took great care in pulling Bucky’s jeans back over his angular hips and tucking all the parts of him back inside. He knew, looking at Bucky smiling up at him, the haze dissipating, that jumping without a parachute had been the right choice. He had no idea where he was going to land, but as long as it was a place that contained Bucky he didn’t care. Steve just let it all go and spread out his limbs to embrace every second of the free-fall.

*****

 

When Bucky finally got home he was surprised to walk into the kitchen to find his bestie, his bro, his platonic boo boo Clint shoving spaghetti into his face while sitting in _his_ designated spot. What the fuck? Nat and his Dad paused like they’d been caught doing something they weren’t supposed to redhanded. Or spaghetti sauce handed since his Dad was holding a ladel full of the deliciousness. Phil made a mean sauce.

“So, did you get your suit?” Papa Barnes asked that question like it pained him to acknowledge that Bucky had a Sugar Daddy. A Sugar Baby? A Sugar...a rich boyfriend who bought him expensive shit.

Bucky just stared at Clint like ‘what the fuck’, and Clint just stared at Bucky like ‘I’m eating your dad’s spaghetti’ as the wedding crasher popped a giant meatball, that should have been cut in half, into his smartass mouth.

“Yes…I got the suit...” Bucky nodded slowly because that was not a question of the normal variety, that was a super loaded question ready to bite him in the ass.

His dad dramatically twirled pasta onto his fork making a harsh squeaking sound against the bowl and it was so fucking menacing! How could a squeak sound like that!? There was no expression in his voice as he said, “and then you came right home?”

Natasha snickered under her breath, because yeah, it was like seven thirty.

“Yes?”

The horrible squeaking sound turned into an even worse scraping sound and there was _way_ too much pasta wrapped around that fork. “Because obviously you got paint all over yourself at the tailor’s?”

God Dammit! Shit! Shit! Shit! Shit! Shit! Why was he so stupid? Not that a four hours at the tailor was gonna be believable anyway, but he could have at least _thought_ about his paint covered clothes...and hands...and shoes...and hair...and god, he was a fucking idiot.

Bucky tried to sound casual as he nodded in the affirmative. “Yeah, its really fashion forward. Steve called it avant garden or something French like that.”

Clint snorted before starting a slow clap and just kept right on clapping until Nat finally kicked his boot with her bare foot.

“Bucky, I told you…” Phil started his frustrated parental tirade that would obviously end nowhere good so Bucky chose to interrupt before he really got rolling...

“What’s Clint doing here?”

His dad sighed. He was so over it. Totally. Over. It. Totally done. “Well, I guess he’s…”

“He’s officially my boyfriend now, so...” Nat quirked up the corner of her mouth and Phil dropped his fork, his wrathful noodle tornado falling apart.

“Oh shit! Fucking finally!” Bucky yelled and grabbed the biggest meatball with his dirty fingers.

Phil slapped at his hand, almost knocking his scrumptious meatball prize out of his grasp, and scolded, “language!”

“Oh, sorry.” He snatched up another delicious sphere of meat because his reflexes were way faster than his dad’s. “Wow! Fucking finally!”

His sister tugged at Bucky’s paint covered jeans and winked at him. “Sit down and have some dinner; unless you already ate something.”

Clint snorted even louder.

Bucky could not fucking believe that little shit just said that! He shook his head at her like payback was coming; because it was. It most certainly was! He grabbed the extra chair out of the corner and sandwiched himself between his Dad and Nat. He piled extra spaghetti and two pieces of garlic bread into his bowl to avoid the realization, with the help of mountains of carbs, that until this moment the extra chair would have gone between Nat and Clint. He needed more carbs! He added a third piece of gluten garlic goodness on top and tried not to acknowledge the shift. Too. Many. Deep. Thoughts. Today! Bucky really couldn’t deal at the moment and it was much easier to concentrate of shoving mountains of noodles into his mouth and loudly slurping the ends out out of his bowl in long saucy ribbons.

After dinner Bucky was banished to his room, because as his dad helpfully reminded him, ‘he was still grounded, and if he wanted to go to the dance he’d be wise not to forget that again’. His mad dad also firmly informed him that the only reason he wasn’t grounding him from the dance _right this second_ was because Bucky actually somehow got a mother fucking ninety-five percent on his sombrero de la verde sauce quiz today. Miracles do happen! Thank you Dora!

Lying on his bed in his disco ball prison he let every crazy thing that happened today run through his head. The events kept going and going and going because it was a lot! Like, you could space that shit out over two weeks and it _still_ would be a lot! Ewan McGregor and Jonathan Rhys Meyer stared at him with their sultry eyes from his 'Velvet Goldmine' poster and he started running his hand along himself. When Steve told him he wanted to do something to ‘make him feel good’ it was like trying a drug for the first time. He thought about his other favorite Ewan role in 'Trainspotting', and how every single time he shot that forbidden drug into his bloodstream the instant feeling of euphoria and relaxation showed on his face. That’s how Bucky felt; drifty and dizzy, and far away but focused. There only things that had existed were what Steve was doing to him and what he was _allowing_ Steve to do to him, because it was dirty, and naughty, and he fucking loved it.

Bucky realized he wasn’t thinking about seventies glam rock boys in glitter and gold as he stroked himself; he was thinking about how it felt when Steve ordered him to put his hands above his head. It was like Fifty Shades of Grey, but without the chauvinistic, abusive, unrealistic, unsexy parts...okay, scratch that. That movie sucked. Steve ordering him around was like… like nothing he’d ever seen. He didn’t even know that kind of feeling existed. God, then he’d actually tied his wrists! The fucking Captain of the Swim Team, Mr. Clean Cut Poster Boy, had looped that belt around his wrists like a pro! Now that Bucky really thought about it, he knew that when Steve snapped the leather cuffs up his arm this morning it was about more than proving he was brave enough snap the red leather; it was also a statement of...of possession? Bucky let his hand speed up as he thought about that little gem. Each buckle, each snap, the feeling of the belt around his hands; were they a statement of dominance? Fuck, that turned Bucky on. He let his other hand drift to his ass and thought about Steve putting his tongue there. That had been shocking. Bucky had obviously seen rimming in porn, because he loved The Porn, but for Steve to just dive in like that? And after a long fucking day too? That was fucking insane. Fuck. But it didn’t feel like those aggressive pornos where guys got tied up and dudes shot come all over their faces while they winced. It wasn’t that at all. Steve made him feel like a goddamn treasure, like it was Steve’s sole responsibility to give him pleasure and allow Bucky to just drift and feel.

He closed his eyes as he sped up his pace and remembered the feeling of Steve telling him not to come. That was when he really started to feel wasted, and damn he craved that feeling. He lifted his ass off the bed to allow his fingers to slip where Steve’s tongue had been and he knew he was almost there. God, he wanted Steve to fuck him again. Bucky let himself pull his legs back and flash back to the vulnerability he felt when he first spread himself open and allowed Steve to push inside his body. Fuck...fuck, that was it...he came all over his hand, and his hips, and his comforter, and a few drops landed on Ewan McGregor. Oh fuck! Ewan!

Watching his come dripping down Ewan’s neck and onto his gold trench coat Bucky thought he should really clean that up, but he just wiggled further into his blankets instead. He chuckled because that fucking orgasm rocked! If he could come that hard from just _thinking_ about Steve fucking him, he seriously couldn’t wait for the _actual_ fucking to happen again. And based on the afternoon’s kinky activities, Bucky knew it was gonna be great.

But then he thought about the worried look Steve had in his eyes as he drove them to Bucky’s house. It was the first time Steve had driven his stupid truck when the two of them were together, which Bucky didn’t dig, but Steve was adamant that in his mysterious woozy state he wasn’t allowed to drive.

“I don’t have an over-the-legal-limit-sex-blood-alcohol level or something Steve.”

“Baby, you were speaking Russian. I think it must have been Russian. You don’t know any other languages do you? Do you remember speaking Russian?”

Bucky totally didn’t.

Steve did the little pinched eyebrow thing as he turned down Fulton Street. “I’m worried because you seemed out of it. Honestly, you _still_ seem a little out of it. We need to do some research.”

“Sex research?” Bucky laughed and unleashed a few very sexy thrusts against the restraint of his seatbelt. “That’s my kind of research.” But joking aside, Steve was right. Bucky had to admit he felt kinda tired and a little floaty or something.

“No, jerk, research on why the hell you were speaking Russian after you came.”

“How the fuck are you gonna Google that?” Bucky cracked up because that search result was gonna be fucking hilarious. Pictures of Vladimir Putin sitting shirtless on a horse with puddles of come everywhere. He snorted.

“Buck, I’m serious.” Steve looked serious.

“So am I! Seriously, what do you type in?”

Steve was trying not to laugh and gave him the worst fake mad look ever. “How about ‘why is my boyfriend such a smartass?”

“Doesn’t solve the Russian part”, Bucky challenged and reclined his seat to the pimp position.

“No, it certainly doesn’t, but it might help me understand all other aspects of daily life with you.” Steve was such a little punk.

When they turned down Bedford the buildings and storefronts told him he was almost home and Bucky suddenly wished the drive was longer. “Ok, fine, fine, fine Stevie. Have fun at your Google party trying to solve the confounding mystery of why I speak in my mother tongue when you make me come; which you did amazingly by the way.”

“Oh yeah? You liked it?”

Bucky punched Steve in the shoulder and gave him the super sexy sex stare. “Well, I didn’t realize you were such a sinfully kinky boy but…”

That got caused an instantaneous blush and a hint of uncertainty crept into Steve’s response. “It was too much. I knew it was too…”

“Dude! I fucking loved it! Are you kidding?” Bucky let his hand run all the way up Steve’s super hot thigh and gave his not-little dick a little squeeze.

Steve pushed his hips up against Bucky’s hand as turned down Jefferson and passed the Corner Grind, which sadly was not Starbucks. Every coffee shop should be Starbucks. Bucky could feel Steve getting turned on as he peeked over at Bucky with a super sexy sex stare of his own and said, “so you wouldn’t mind if I did it again?”

“Now? But you’re driving Stevie. That would be pretty dangerous.”

They’d laughed the last few minutes of the drive, with Steve continually touching him on the thigh, and Bucky letting his fingers slide underneath Steve’s t-shirt to count his abs over and over; one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, and Steve tracing the raised veins on Bucky’s forearms so lightly that it tickled. It was Heaven. There were no pearly gates, no westernized white jesus with a hipster beard, no angels floating mindlessly around worshipping and shit, thank god. Some prophet should write this awesomeness down, because it was a much better afterlife option.

Bucky had asked Steve if he wanted to talk about Alexander or Brock or the rest of it, but he’d given Bucky a powerfully sad look and said, “let’s not ruin our afternoon”, and let his hand slide under his bird nest hair to grab his neck. “But thank you baby. Soon okay?” Steve swung the truck next to the fire hydrant closest to Bucky’s door and gave him a sweet kiss before slowly driving away. He saw Steve watching him in the rearview mirror and Bucky tried his best to let go of the worry as the truck’s taillights disappeared around the corner. But it never really left.

After his delicious spaghetti dinner and whacking off he was super tired, so he tried to let himself fall asleep picturing what Clint was doing with his sister in the other room. No, scratch that! Scratch that from the face of the Earth with a Magic Eraser. That was wrong. So fucking wrong! Actually he tried to fall asleep trying _not_ to picture what Clint was doing with his sister in the other room. Nope. Don't go there. He was not Catherine! Or was he Sebastian? He couldn't remember, but it didn't matter because his life was _not_ Cruel Intentions. God dammit it totally was!

Bucky tried another tactic: as he tried to make his body relax he wondered what was gonna happen the rest of the week at school? What was Steve finding in his Google sex search? He couldn’t help but picture old guys with those fuzzy Russian hats and fur coats grouped in front of the Kremlin fucking each other doggy style with empty vodka bottles strewn around in the snow. He was Russian and knew those stereotypes weren’t true, well mostly not true, but it still was fucking funny to think about. He really hoped Steve was googling weird Russian gay sex and not having any problems with his fucking stepdad.

Maybe he could kidnap Steve and take him away from all the horrific bullshit, they could jump on a plane to Incubus Island, or he could just slide his crap around to make room for Steve right here in Bucky’s bed in Brooklyn. Bucky’s Brooklyn bed. Bucky’s bed and Breakfast. If Steve was in his bed every night he would totally make him breakfast every morning; Lucky Charms every damn day! Suddenly, he felt overwhelming sadness that Steve wasn’t with him and complete fucking devastation that he could be in trouble or getting hurt.  Bucky felt heavy and alone and painfully lost as tears started welling up in his eyes. It hit him hard and fast and he felt way off-center. Normally if he felt sad he’d go to sleep in Natasha’s room, but for the first time that wasn't an option and that made him cry harder. What the hell? He was fucking fine less than five fucking minutes ago and now he was bawling like a pathetic baby in his huge empty bed. He shoved three pillows in a row along the outer side of the mattress and cuddled up to them, but their mushy centers were no match for Steve’s solid chest or being able to tuck his cold feet between Steve’s strong legs. He wanted Steve here. He wanted him in this bed, safe, and keeping Bucky warm. The tears started soaking his pillow and no matter how hard he tried to imagine the three pillows were really Steve, they just weren't.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again I just have to say the thoughtful and encouraging comments mean the world to me. Thank you to everyone who has shared their own struggles with anxiety, depression, bipolar, OCD, and the other daily struggles many of us deal with. There is power in standing together and speaking the truth about life these difficult issues. Also hugs to everyone who is struggling to come out, or is having a rough time being who you really are. I hope this story helps you to know you aren't alone. 
> 
> This chapter's trivia question is: In the bathroom scene with Bucky and Sam, why did I choose to make Sam like Marvin Gaye? Comment the answer for a delectable Oreo Cheesecake and all the vanilla ice cream in the universe! And thats a LOT!
> 
> Bonus Trivia (this is a hard one): What other Sebastian Stan role/scene was I thinking of when imagined Steve putting the aviator sunglasses on Bucky at the studio? Its one of my favorite Seb moments! Winners get warm apple pie that's oozing goodness.
> 
> Triple Bonus Round: What was a referencing with the red puffy eighties ski jacket at the back of Bucky's closet? Surprise Prize for you super Sebastian fans!
> 
> Hey, please come visit me on! I love to hear from you! Happy New Year!
> 
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	12. Red

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello wonderful people. This chapter explores very intense themes and emotions so please be mindful of the tags. If you'd like to ask about anything specific before you read please don't hesitate. The mood music playlist for this Chapter is up on my YouTube- JessieLucid. Bassnectar goes with Clint's POV, David Bowie with Tony, and Nine Inch Nails for the rest. If you listen to the NIN songs as you read, starting with Bucky's POV it will really enhance the story. Thanks guys!

                                        

 

If Clint were to edit together ‘The Ultimate Teen Movie Montage’ to sum up Week One of Steve and Bucky’s officially out and proud relationship, it would go a little somethin’ like this:

First of all, he’d have to throw emotional and sexy dance music on top of the whole shebang, because that’s simply the essence of his star Bucky Barnes: highly emotional and wickedly sexy. Now that the big gay secret was out of the bag, Clint learned pretty quickly that Bucky’s co-star Steve Rogers was also a very emotional, sexy dude; with an added dose of angst and sappy romantic goop thrown in for variety. Was there one perfect song that could capture all those qualities? That was a tough one, and he really needed a Bucky soundtrack consultation, so Clint was gonna stick with the vague description ‘emotional/sexy music’ for now, and put the hunt for the perfect song on his ‘post-production to-do list’.

Clint tipped his head back to soak up some of the fall sunshine. He didn’t follow the ‘punks need to be pale’ school of thought. The sun felt so good on his skin and he was gonna absorb every ounce of Vitamin D he possibly could before winter hit. Fuckin’ winter in New York..ugh. Plus, he looked damn good with a tan; it made his muscles look badass. He closed his eyes and thought about how smart he was for skipping sixth hour to chill on the ledge in front of the school. Not only was it Friday, but it was also the day of the fuckin’ dance, so when that final bell rang the mass exodus was gonna be out of control. Chillin’ time was a necessity before the insanity of this dance shit got rolling. There were very specific reasons he and Bucky had never set foot anywhere near one of these things; reason number one being ‘fuck that shit!’. But things change. It seemed like everything was changing really. The fact that Bucky wasn’t sitting on this ledge with him right now proved that point.

He slipped down to lie flat on the concrete, crossing his duct tape boots at the ankles and tried not to be such a whiny asshole. Change was good. Everything was gonna be fuckin’ good and his movie montage was gonna embody that vibe. Shoving his purple John Lennon shades over his eyes he tried to imagine the best opening shots for his Steve and Bucky...that was too wordy…’Beve?’, ‘Buckeve’? ‘Steky?’ ‘Stucky?’...boom, nailed it! Attempt number two: The clouds were floating by with a purple haze as he tried to imaging the best opening shots for his Stucky montage. Thinking back over the crazy week, Wednesday morning kept jumping to the front of his brain. Wednesday morning sucked. A cloud that looked like a creature with horns floated across the sky and crossed behind the tall buildings towards the East River and Clint felt the tension building in his neck. He could stare at devil clouds all afternoon to distract himself from reality, but there was no avoiding it; the opening shots of his Stucky montage had to be Bucky acting really fuckin’ weird Wednesday morning. He had to put it in because it was still bugging Clint and the reason it was still bugging him was...well the list of weirdness went on and on and on...

Weird thing number one: Bucky was quiet. Clint noticed it as soon as he climbed in the car for their pre-dawn ride to school. He threw his backpack on the floor, like he did every day, and flopped into the back seat, like he did every day, expecting their normal everyday routine; sleepy Bucky dramatically falling onto Clint’s shoulder while he whined at his dad to drive faster because he ‘needed his coffee right fucking now or he was gonna die’. What he got instead was Nat sitting in Bucky’s spot looking as confused as Clint felt. Bucky was leaning against the passenger door next to his dad and the vibe was all wrong. He didn’t even say ‘hi’ when Clint climbed in behind him and seriously he couldn’t think of a time in six fuckin’ years of getting into cars with Bucky Barnes where he didn’t at least say ‘hi’. Phil wasn’t talking, Bucky wasn’t even making eye contact, and Nat was trying to hold an entire conversation with raised eyebrows, squinted eyes, head shakes and shoulder shrugs to tell Clint...he’d had no clue what the hell she was trying to tell him. Clint tried signing ‘what is wrong?’ to her, but she’d just given him a quick shake of her head and stared at Bucky’s crumpled form. All three of them knew that Bucky only shut-up when something was really wrong, and even then he’d usually just stop rambling about movies and put a hold on cracking jokes to switch over to non-stop bitching about whatever was pissing him off. So Bucky being totally silent, not even uttering a single complaint when Phil didn’t order him a Frappuccino, meant that something was _really_ fucking wrong.

Weird thing number two: Bucky’s hair had been a fucking disaster when Clint got in the car. True, Bucky’s hair was always a chaotic mess in the morning, but this was Edward Scissorhands on a bad day. Clint actually did a double take and said, ‘what the hell’s wrong with your head!?’ but there’d been no answer. Bucky only leaned further into the car door and smashing his knotted hair against the glass which made Nat looked like she about to cry. Clint thought about the thousands of times he’d watched Natasha comb her fingers through her brother’s soft brown hair to loosen the knots or brush it out of his face, but Wednesday morning her hands remained in her lap and his hair remained in knots.

Weird thing number three: Bucky was moping around like the Hunchback of Notre Dame. Clint decided to walk with him to the locker room to try to get him to at least drink some of his coffee. As the walked in silence down the dim hallway not only did Bucky refuse to say anything and ignore the generous coffee offers, he was slouching so much that he was shorter than Clint! There once was a time when that was the case, but Bucky shot right past him Junior year and now stood a solid three inches taller. Three inches of slouch meant Bucky’s spine was in serious danger of collapsing completely into a sad puddle on the floor. Someone needed to hug Bucky so tight around the middle that it squeezed him back to full height, like a tube of almost empty toothpaste or a deflating blow up doll. Not that he knew anything about deflating blow up dolls… anyway, the hugging job was normally his, but when Clint tried to put his arm around Bucky he shook it off and disappeared into the locker room. Clint had been left staring at a full cup of coffee as the door slammed in his face and it fucking sucked.

Weird thing number four: Bucky decided it was necessary to put his Mr. Krab pajama pants _back_ on _after_ swim practice and wear them to all his morning classes. When Clint saw him by his locker Daisy was standing behind him with a ‘what the fuck?’ look plastered on her face. Bucky completely ignored both of them and just pressed his locker shut before disappearing with a sad krabby cloud raining all over his sad krabby pants and dripping down his sad krabby hunchback.

Lying on his back watching the clouds rush across the sky was giving Clint that disorienting feeling that he could sense the rotation of the Earth. It made him feel small and insignificant and so far his montage was really fucking depressing. He couldn’t put emotional and sexy music over that part! That part was horrible and needed The Smiths or The Cure or something Alternative and sad. He needed to ask Bucky what song would fit...Clint sighed and bounced the heels of his boots roughly against the ledge and spotted a speeding train engine in the puffy white clouds. It curved sharply before disappearing behind a skyscraper and Clint just wanted to scream. He was just trying to kill some time thinking about a happy little montage and here was lying on his back, seeing shit in the clouds, and thinking about Morrissey.

There was no doubt that Bucky’s weird shit had messed with Clint’s head. Normally he was the calm one, the guy who fixed things, that held things together, but that entire morning he couldn’t stop himself from worrying. Was Bucky pissed because Clint finally got the balls to ask Nat to be his girlfriend? Was he mad that she actually said yes? Was he pissed at Nat too? Was he mad that Clint crashed the weekly Barnes’ spaghetti dinner without telling him, or was it something else entirely? Normally, when Bucky was mad he’d slam into Clint at full speed and unleash disgusting burps in his face, or try to stick his finger in Clint’s Achilles heel; his belly button. That was usually Bucky’s primary target because he was a dick and used Clint’s weakness to his advantage. When anyone stuck their finger in there it felt like his intestines were being probed by a long alien finger! A big shiver rolled up his spine just thinking about it. But Wednesday there were no random tackles, no god-awful burping, no invasive probing...and it was awful.  

Weird thing number five: Steve and Krabcake were both MIA during lunch and Bucky _never_ missed lunch! He loved eating all the junk-food, and Clint loved stealing all the junk-food! It felt weird parking himself across from Tony Stark and his merry band of wealthy folk without the Wonder Couple to bridge the gap, but surprisingly the vibe was super chill. Sam was cool enough to offer Clint some delicious sweet potato fries even _before_ he tried to steal them, and Tony sweetly kissed Daisy on her cheek after she tossed him a Twinkie. Skinner had his nose buried in _three_ laptops with Bruce and Peter, and Clint caught Lola sneaking over to slide a cherry blow pop into his checkered shirt pocket. Overall, it was a shockingly chill lunch with a surprisingly chill gang and he actually enjoyed himself. But Bucky’s empty seat bothered him. It also bothered him that Steve was missing too. It bothered him that Clint was sitting at a new lunch table with new people instead of sneaking up to the roof with Bucky to help him work out whatever was wrong. He’d stolen a whole handful of Sam’s fries and stared at Steve’s empty seat. It made Clint feel bunch of shit he couldn’t really deal with so he just shoved all the fried into his mouth at once and tried not to think about it.

Thank god when he finally caught up to Bucky after fourth hour he was wearing actual pants, sans krabs, and his hair was pulled back in a sloppy bun that was more GQ than Edward Scissorhands. While they sat on the couch in front of the art room and racked up a couple of tardies, Bucky apologized for acting like a dick and explained that Steve took him up to the roof at lunch to somehow ‘fix’ whatever it was that Clint had absolutely no idea about. Apparently the ‘cure’ involved snuggling or something? Details weren’t exactly forthcoming which also needed to be added to the weird list. Bucky always told him everything! Seriously, _everything_ ! Even when Clint did not, under any circumstances, _want_ to hear all the gory details, Bucky made sure to tell Clint every single one. Wanna know how high Bucky shoots come onto his wall when he jacks off? His current record is six feet four inches and yes, Bucky does measure that shit. Wanna know Bucky’s very intimate observations about his favorite gay porn stars? Clint can helpfully inform you that Jake Bass has the nicest eyes and the cutest bubble butt and, if you put Jake in a artsy porn wearing a dress shirt with the sleeves cut off, Bucky can come three times in a row. Clint can also pass on the very important knowledge that Tayte Hanson rolls his hips just right when he fucks _and_ when he gets fucked. These are a few example of things Clint doesn’t need to know, but does because Bucky tells him _everything_. At least he used to.

Clint dragged his fingernails against the bumpy ledge while watching the sky transforming in slow motion and tried to be honest with himself about the situation. Lately, _he_ wasn’t exactly telling Bucky everything either...so maybe it was a fair trade? He had no idea, but it all had to go in the montage. Film should be about truth, and ignoring the awfulness of Wednesday would cheapen the reality with disproportionate fluff. Maybe he could bounce from a close-up  of Clint looking confused, then switch to Bucky looking confused, then back to Clint looking even more confused, then back to Bucky looking...basically lots of quick cuts of confused Clint and confused Bucky reacting to one another’s incomplete disclosures.

Clint gave a sarcastic little wave to some parent in impractical stilettos teetering up the steps on her way into the school. She had the classic ‘why is a delinquent like you sitting on the hallowed steps of Eaton Academy?’ stare. If he could roll his eyes three-hundred and sixty degrees at the bitch he’d roll them around at least three times. He dug his phone out of his pocket and dammit, there was still twelve minutes until the bell rang. He just wanted to get his girl, put on some fancy clothes, and bring the spectacle to this stupid dance. And he wanted a taco. The smells blowing across the street from the Mexican joint were making his mouth water something fierce.

With more time to kill he pondered what would be next in his little edit. All the depressing shit had to end and move into something hopeful. Clint heard sirens in the distance and wondered if that snobby bitch called the cops on him. Probably. Maybe the police would be cool enough to let him get tacos-to-go before shoving him in the cop car? So, the montage; he needed to think uplifting. A T-Swift heart cloud whizzed past and made Clint think about the lovey-dovey Stucky looks. Aww, thanks for the inspiration T-Swift! Clint could legitimately make an entire three-hour feature film consisting of only the sly little looks Bucky and Steve had been flashing each other all week. It was...cute?...no, it was totally obnoxious. But in a cute way? He wished he had hidden X cameras to get an accurate count of how many times Bucky powered up his Sex Stare because it was impossible to count without instant replay. Maybe Clint would break the fourth wall and do a ‘thumbs-up’ supporting Bucky’s amazing Sex Stare performance. Action: Clint looks at the audience and nods his head like ‘oh yeah, did you see that Sex Stare? Cuz I saw that saw that Sex Stare and it was fuckin’ sexy!’, while giving a thumbs-up and a wink. Clint knew how many hours Bucky spent in front of the mirror perfecting the sexual intensity of The Sex Stare and it he was weirdly proud to see the investment finally paying off.

Steve’s sly looks at Bucky needed a totally different cinematic approach. First, the camera would need to sneak up on Steve from a low angle to catch the sheepish smiles he aimed at the floor before dramatically following the shift in intensity as Steve raised his eyes to stare at Bucky like he wanted to fuck him through the wall. Bucky _had_ admitted that Steve had a ‘little thing’ for tying him up a ‘little bit’ and being a ‘little bit’ bossy. Clint suspected he was underplaying this by roughly eighty-seven percent, so he was gonna include ‘seriously tied up’ and ‘extra super bossy’ in his montage. Bucky also hinted that he liked it, which Clint translated as: Bucky loved it and they were both kinky bastards!

In between the non-stop sexy looks, Clint would have to intercut the general asshoery of the rest of Eaton. Yeah, there were a few cool people intermingled with the fuckheads, but only enough to merit one or two fleeting shots in his montage. Definitely included would be ‘The Lurker’: TJ Campbell. He kept mysteriously appearing in the background of Clint’s perfectly framed shots, wearing his daily political uniform of skinny black dress pants, sharply pressed button-ups and perfectly pomaded hair. Clint would spot TJ pretending to get a drink as Stucky walked by, or vacantly pretending to listen to some girl while he stared at Bucky eating lunch, or more often he was just standing in the background lookin’ all jealous and doing a piss-poor job attempting to hide it with fake indifference. ‘The Lurker’ would add a little mystery to this section of the montage: Closeted Senator’s son lurks around the perimeter. What's going through his tortured mind? Is he thinking about the time Bucky kissed him under the bleachers and imagining what could have been? Is he reminded of his own family's disappointment in his deviant desires? Is he jealous that Steve had the balls to come out of the closet while he’s still pretending to be straight to earn his father’s approval? God, this shit just wrote itself! Clint actually felt bad for the guy because when you really got down to the nitty-gritty of the story, TJ was stuck in a very similar situation as Steve, just add drugs. But still, his plight added essential drama to the montage.

Then there were the villains; the fuckface villains. Clint felt his blood pressure rising just thinking about it. He wanted to imagine a sweet little lovey dovey Stucky montage and Brock Rumlow’s stupid face fucked it all up. After Castle’s vague warning, which seriously w-at the hell?, Clint was shocked that Rumlow made it all the way to Thursday before fully unleashing his inner bastard again. Clint fuckin’ hated him...hated him! If he could get away with shooting an arrow directly through Rumlow’s windpipe he’d jump at the chance. He’d happily climb on the roof right this second and line up the shot that would remove fuckface from the plot altogether, but everyone would know it was him. Then he’d have to include dramatic shots of himself slamming his hands against the glass inside a supermax prison cell and that wasn’t gonna fly. He wasn’t a criminal, although at this particular moment in time he kinda wished he was because he’d love to take that shot. Then afterwards, when they carting Brock’s body away in the coroner’s van, he’d like to eat a celebratory taco. Damn they smelled sooo good!

But this montage wasn’t a murderous fantasy, and in the real story Clint wrapped up archery practice Thursday and headed to the swim meet with Nat and Phil. While Clint shoved huge handfuls of popcorn into his mouth Bucky kept right on winning; both of his individual events and both relays. It was pretty clear when Bucky and Steve swam the relays that they were unbeatable when they were together. Oh, and Phil kept giving him funny looks when their hands reached for popcorn on Nat’s lap at the same time...but that was off plot; not montage worthy. Back to the villains: Clint did capture a ton of usable footage of Brock stomping around trying to look menacing in his tiny blue swimsuit. Plus, there were endless shots of Brock sneering at Frank because Castle was fully ignoring him; plot twist! The footage of Coach Fury screaming at Brock because he shouldered Steve after the Freestyle Medley was pretty kickass and Steve sneaking Bucky a kiss behind Sam’s broad back was syrupy sweet. Bonus clip: Brock flat out lost his final individual event by three seconds.

Unfortunately, it was the final Brock/Bucky confrontation that had to serve as the dramatic peak of his edit. He could have all the light-hearted googly eyes and sexy times in his montage, but this shit with Brock was real deal. After the meet Clint was hanging by the back doors with Nat and a few of her friends waiting for Bucky to change. He’d been thinking about the scrumptious fatty waiting for him in his bedroom and was praying his mom already took Lucky out for his walk so Clint could just chill on the fire escape and light it up. It’d been a long ass day and he just wanted to pet his dog, eat some leftover pizza, and zone out.

Bucky angrily slamming open the door and storming down the steps put a full stop to that green train of thought. Nat instantly said ‘talk to you later’ to her friends and grabbed her brother’s hand to pull him into the shadow of the building. It took a little coaxing, and a little hair petting, and a little shoulder rubbing, but Bucky finally told them it was Brock. Fucking Brock. The villain had stepped out from an alcove behind Bucky as he walked down the back hall and shadowed him, matching every step, and spewing his typical homophobic bullshit. Bucky said he tried to ignore him and walked faster towards the exit, but the prick had the nerve to grab his arm and whisper, ‘if you think sucking Rogers’ cock good enough to make him admit he’s a fuckin’ faggot will keep you safe’, he’d shoved Bucky towards the door and sneered, ‘it won’t’.

Bucky shivered when he finally told them, so yeah, if Clint could get away with killing Rumlow he would. Steve was most definitely on the same violent page, because when Bucky explained what the prick did he sucked in a breath, set his jaw and punched a locker. It left a dent.

Bitchy mom walked out with her equally bitchy daughter and they _both_ gave him the stare. He really hated these people, so he just gave them a thumbs up and yelled, “Don’t worry, the cops should be here any second to arrest me for being punk and poor. Have a good day.”

Bitchy mom actually grabbed bitchy daughter’s arm and yanked her to the opposite side of the steps. Clint just laughed and thought about tacos. Maybe he could talk Bucky and Nat into a taco stop before they went home, but maybe Mexican on dance night wasn’t the best idea?

It would be confusing to the audience if he didn’t mention The Super Villain in his montage. When Clint and Sam did their covert spandex tag team check in, Steve reported successful avoidance of the asshole stepdad. The prick was in Japan on business or something until Monday and that fucker needed to just stay there, stay there and die. Such a fucking creep! So thankfully his montage wouldn't have to include any more horrific physical abuse. Jesus, this was sad. This was a sad edit! That’s it, he pulled himself upright and let his feet dangle over the side of the ledge. Time to switch it up!

Cue the sexy music. For spice, and to balance out all this shitty angst, he’d pepper in comedic cuts of Tony, Skinner and Daisy pressuring Bucky for sexy details: ‘Did you have sex again? We all know you had sex again! What do you mean he tied you up? Tied you up with what? You did _what_ on the roof before the swim meet!? Isn't it getting too cold to perform that kind of activity outdoors? Was there turtling? Does Steve have a huge dick? I bet he does! Even in the cold air, with maximum turtling I bet his dick is huge!’ Clint and his merry gang of sex investigators were relentless and Bucky hiding behind a curtain of messy brown hair to try to avoid their obnoxious inquiries was worthy of at least fifteen seconds of screen time.

Oh and definitely, for purely selfish reasons and because he was the editor and could do whatever the hell he wanted, he’d intercut some lovey-dovey snippets with his _girlfriend_ . His smart, funny, talented, super hot _girlfriend_ . Maybe the scene in Nat’s bedroom after the spaghetti and meatballs? That glorious moment when he got to lay in her lap as she spoon fed _him_ ice cream, chocolate with hot fudge, and he learned how it felt to be on the receiving end of the spoon. It was nice...so damn nice. No wonder Bucky liked it so much! Or he could go with grainy security cam footage as he nervously walked into a flower shop for the first time in his life. Clint was self aware enough to know a good fish out of water scene would be hilarious: so many flowers, so crowded, so smelly, so damn confusing! He somehow managed to get a nice older lady wearing lots of costume jewelry to help him buy some pink ones, but only after learning the hard way that he was deathly allergic to lilies. He barely made it out of there alive _and_ he sneezed for over an hour! Another good choice would be a gratuitous sweaty close-up of his rippling muscles as he massaged Nat’s sore back after her ballet rehearsal. At her request, he’d kindly provided this service with his shirt off, because he was a good _boyfriend_ like that. He sighed because sadly, if he included his manly muscles in the montage he’d come off as a narcissistic asshole, or a soft-core porn star, so his triceps had to go on the cutting room floor.

However, his rippling muscles were important to the plot because the shirtless massage led directly to the slightly weird ‘Cruel Intentions’ first kiss he’d been fantasizing about since June. The kiss would definitely make the cut but _not_ the slightly weirder ‘Cruel Intentions’ blow job. As Clint ran his hands through Nat’s gorgeous red hair he tried, really really really tried, to pretend it wasn’t creepy that she’d have to suck his cock approximately ninety-nine more times to catch up to her brother, but... fuck...there was no pretending; it was weird...creepy and weird. _But_ everything she did with her mouth and her hands was fuckin’ amazing and he knew he’d _eventually_ stop picturing Bucky down there. Anyway, moving on... the fantastic ‘Cruel Intentions’ blow job was _not_ going in the montage, but a few warm gooey kisses and the sappy pink flowers? Sure.

The dismissal bell _finally_ rang and the perfect closing shot dropped right into Clint’s lap. As predicted, the entire student body poured out the front doors and congregated on the steps to be overly excited about the stupid dance in a big herd. Nat was talking to a few of her dance friends and Clint looked over his sunglasses just in time to catch her peeking at him over her friend Laura’s shoulder. A little dimple appeared in Nat’s cheek when she gave him a tiny little smile and he just wanted to kiss it! He just wanted to kiss that tiny dimple! He felt the goofy smile spread all over his face and he blew her a kiss. What!? He just blew her a fuckin’ kiss! What the actual fuck was happening to him? He ran his hand along the silver spikes sticking off the shoulders of his denim vest and tried to maintain his cool. Here he was giving Rogers shit about his Stalker Poetry, but he was just as bad, if not worse...picturing itty bitty dimple kisses!

Anyway, not to lose the plot; the final scene of ‘The Ultimate Teen Movie Montage’ unfolded perfectly before his eyes: Steve and Bucky shoved through the wooden doors into the golden sunshine wearing huge grins and heading down the stairs with a bounce to their steps. They didn’t see Clint, or seemingly anyone else for that matter, so the cinematic moment was totally method, totally pure. They were lost in their own little world, acting out a perfectly scripted romantic climax. Steve jumped off the last step and flipped around to give Bucky, who was hovering one step above him, a perfect leading man smile. Classic. Man, this scene should be in black and white...

Steve let one of his hands brush Bucky’s fingertips and said, “so the courier will deliver your suit at five and we’ll pick you up in the limo at seven.”

The laugh that escaped Bucky’s lips echoed across the crowd, but the annoyed and disgusted looks shooting back at them from all sides were completely ignored, as if they couldn’t penetrate the touching scene. Bucky shook his head and chuckled, “I still can’t believe you say things to me like, ‘the courier will deliver your suit’, with a straight face.”

“Well,” Steve laughed, “after tonight I probably won’t be saying that kind of thing much longer so don’t get used to it. It’ll be more like, ‘Hey Buck, go find a garbage bag off the street and wear that. It’s all I can afford.”

God, Clint thought. That wasn’t funny at all.

“That’s not funny at all Steve.” Bucky let his hands fall onto Steve’s shoulders and Clint agreed one-million percent. Fucking right! Clint wanted to fist bump Bucky for reading his mind!

“I know.” Steve let his hand rest softly on Bucky’s hip and Clint felt...happy. Happy? It _was_ nice to finally see someone touching Bucky like he deserved. Clint swallowed and scraped the heels of his boots harshly against the bricks; this was about Steve and Bucky, not Clint’s shit! In the middle of the herd Steve hooked a finger through Bucky’s belt loop and gave him a tiny tug. “Hey Buck, let’s not think about it. Let’s think about how excited I am to walk into this stupid dance with you.”

“It’s gonna be a nightmare,” Bucky grinned. He was spot on with that analysis and Clint knew he was gonna have to pregame this shit, despite having a beautiful girl on his arm.

Sappy Steve reached up to smooth Bucky’s hair, which was blowing in the wind, and dripped romantic goo all over the place. “Not for me. I can’t wait.”

Damn, they nailed it! There it was! The final frame! Steve planted another mushy kiss on Bucky’s cheek before he practically skipped down the sidewalk towards the parking structure.

Clint took a minute to sit quietly on the edge his perch and watch Bucky watching Steve. It made him feel...something. He ground the buckles of his pants against the concrete and tried to convince himself he wasn’t being fair. He’d been Bucky’s number one for so many years, and they’d been through so much together; good, bad and fucking horrible. It was complete bullshit that he was feeling anything but thrilled that Bucky was looking at Steve the way he’d looked at Clint the night he climbed up into his lap; the night he knew Bucky was in love with him. God, what the hell was wrong with him? Bucky looked happy! It was so simple...Steve made him happy, and Bucky _deserved_ to be happy every single moment of every single day!

He swallowed the lump in his throat and hopped off the ledge to sneak up behind his favorite Cupcake and try to talk him into tacos. Pushing through the crowd Clint realized that Bucky was usually his co-director. They’d dissect scenes from their favorite movies until three in the morning while shoving cold pizza into their faces until their stomachs were huge. They’d analyze how the lighting enhanced the story, which cinematographers used the best camera angles, the masterful symbolism of Alfred Hitchcock and Stanley Kubrick, and fight about whether David Fincher or Guy Ritchie staged grittier fight scenes. But looking at Bucky’s back he could feel that something had changed. Now Bucky was the star.

Clint took a few steps backwards to take in the beautiful expression on Bucky’s face as he watched Steve disappear into the parking structure. The mixture of excitement, hope and awe on his features was all the confirmation Clint needed; this movie was gonna be epic. Whether the road was uplifting, scary, dramatic, comedic, romantic, action-packed, or all of the above, it was definitely gonna be worth the price of admission.

*****

 

‘One of these things is not like the other, one of these things just doesn’t belong. Can you tell which thing is not like the others by the time I finish my song?’ Bucky could not stop that ‘Sesame Street’ song from playing on repeat in his head as he stared at the black garment bag and the professionally wrapped box sitting on the utter fucking disaster that he called his bed. But that wasn’t right; it wasn’t _one_ thing that didn’t belong, so he had to switch it up: ‘Two of these things are not like the others, two of these things just don’t belong’.

Seriously, his star blanket was practically in knots where he’d kicked it towards the end of the bed and his plaid flannel sheet was coming untucked at the back corner so you could see the stain where he’d spilled a bottle of chocolate milk and it looked like someone shit all over his mattress. Not to mention his discarded pajamas and the three balled up socks that were sticking out from underneath the garment bag, that’s what it’s called right? Bucky was gonna call it the ‘Scary Black Bag’...it sounded more ominous. The mystery box was at a slight angle because it was propped up on his fuzzy zebra pillow. The one that Daisy had sewn him out of fake blue zebra fur. She wasn’t exactly great at sewing so there was a little stuffing peeking out one corner, but Bucky fucking loved that pillow! And now it’s territory was being invaded by two fancy pants containers that somehow made everything in his entire goddamn room look like it cost two dollars!

The two things that didn’t belong had, in actual real world fact, been delivered to his wee little Brooklyn house by a very attractive dude driving a black Mercedes-Benz SUV. The guy looked all ‘Men in Black’ with his black suit and his black shades and the ‘Scary Black Bag’ and the shiny mystery box. Agent K had beamed in promptly at five o’clock and demanded Bucky’s signature on a portable computer screen thing; further confirming his ‘Men in Black’ theory. Agent K thrust the thing towards Bucky and since he’d never signed for anything in his entire fucking life the whole close encounter was substantially overwhelming! Now here he was, staring at the two things that didn’t belong, because he was too fucking afraid to touch them. ‘Two of these things just don’t belong…’

Natasha glided into his room fresh from her shower and stood next to him for a second, appraising the situation. She smelled like cherry blossom body wash. “From Steve I’m assuming?”

Bucky nodded slowly.

“Just gonna stare at them all day?”

Hell yes he was just gonna stare at them all day! He quietly sang, “can you tell which things are not like the others by the time I finish my song?”, in a voice that was more horror movie than blue fuzzy Grover and Nat raised her eyebrows. God, that was such a fucking skill! All she had to do to make him spill the beans, every fucking time, was just arch one perfect brow at him! Sorcery!

Fucking fine. He sucked in a deep overly dramatic breath, then slowly raised his arm to point at the package monsters on his bed. “That bag over there, the one on top of the dirty ‘Little Mermaid’ pajamas that I’ve been wearing since Tuesday, that bag contains an outfit that’s worth over eight-thousand-fucking-dollars. That tiny bag contains the equivalent of a halfass decent car! Nat, there’s eight-mother-fucking-thousand dollars zipped up in the scary black bag and it seriously was just delivered to me, to _me_ , by a fucking courier in a goddamn Mercedes! I don’t even know how to fucking spell ‘courier’!”

Bucky just stood there because his brain was doing some involuntary calculations: laptop, stereo, Ps4, kickass clothes that were mostly from Sal’s, DVDs, guitar, comic books, random shit...well that added up to… jesus fucking christ! The combined value of every single thing he owned wasn’t even _half_ the cost of the items zipped up in that scary black bag!

Natasha ran her fingers through her damp hair, completely unimpressed and crossed her arms. “And the box?”

“No fucking clue.”

So there they stood, side by side with their arms crossed; two freshly showered sentinels maintaining a safe perimeter while wrapped in their impractical towels uniforms. Normally his Spongebob towel would give him that extra zippy boost of F-U-N confidence; ‘The Best Day Ever’ kind of feeling, but not today. Nope. Today he just made some Kardashian duck lips and stood there with Nat; ready to get ready. Or in Bucky’s case, he stood there; not _at all_ ready to get ready. There was definitely no fucking way he was ready to open that scary-ass box. ‘What’s in the box!? What’s in the box?’ rudely intruded his already fucked up thoughts and he just wanted to scream at Brad Pitt to shut the hell up! That movie haunted him for _years_!

Natasha thankfully saved him from the horrors of Gwyneth Paltrow’s decapitated head when she nudged his shoulder and whispered, “do you want me to peek?”

“Nooo,” Bucky moaned, “I can do it.”

He growled and dragged his not F-U-N ass over to the box and let his fingers snake along the edge where the golden ribbon was perfectly attached to the reflective silver paper. The last present Bucky gave someone was wrapped in crappy faded Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer paper and blue electrical tape. It was Clint’s birthday. Clint’s birthday that’s in _June_. Bucky tugged a little on the edge of the perfect bow and chuckled because that shit had been fucking funny! The paper was so faded that Rudolph’s nose wasn’t even red, it was a sickly pale brown and Clint said it looked like poor Rudolph stuck his glowing red nose in a pile of shit. But this present was… well the box itself looked like it was the mother fucking gift; like he could proudly display it on his shelf next to ‘The Walking Dead’ comics and his realistic Jared Leto Joker figurine and it would outclass them all. He let his fingers slide around the edge of the lid. It was separate so all Bucky had to do was lift it off…

“What is it?” Natasha was standing on her ballerina tip toes trying to peek.

There are moments in life when you realize that someone just gets you. Bucky had been lucky enough to experience two of those life-changing moments already. Natasha was the first, and he was six years old. He’d been at the orphanage for maybe a month, and it was finally sinking in that his parents weren’t coming back; that that final wave as they drove away was really the final wave. He was crying in a snowy corner of the playground while the other kids swung on the rusty swings and spun in circles on the squealing merry-go-round. His butt and legs were so cold from sitting in the pile of shoveled snow but he was refusing to move, and not understanding why he couldn’t. This little red-headed girl with a knitted red scarf had plopped right down in the snow next to him and silently handed him half of a stale chocolate chip cookie from her coat pocket. She hadn’t said a word, just sat next to him in the snow while he ate the stolen cookie and even at six years old he was smart enough to know the little red-headed girl understood.

He was lucky enough to find person number two when he was twelve and his brand new dad enrolled him in swimming lessons at the Brooklyn YMCA. He barely spoke English, seriously they were still primarily using hand gestures to get through the day, so Phil was throwing Bucky and Natasha into every activity he could think of to expose them to life in America and help them learn some goddamn English. There was this blond kid in his class who sucked so bad at swimming that Bucky was convinced he was drowning every time the teacher let go of him in the pool. This kid didn’t seem to give a shit that Bucky didn’t have a clue what he was saying. He just kept talking at him, flipping off the swimming instructor every time he turned his back to make Bucky laugh, and shoving Bucky in the pool every chance he got. At his third lesson the blond kid brought Bucky a ‘Watchmen’ comic and they sat on the bleachers afterwards while he pointed at the panels and taught Bucky words like ‘blood-stained smiley face’, ‘Doctor Manhattan’, ‘Rorschach’ and ‘Antarctic Retreat’. He also taught Bucky sign language since the kid couldn’t wear his hearing aides in the pool. Sitting on the crappy bleachers with the sun illuminating the dust particles floating in the air, Bucky knew this kid somehow got him; this funny kid named Clint.

Looking into the box Bucky knew he was right in the middle of a third rare moment. That somehow, Steve saw inside of him and got it...got him.

Natasha started bouncing up and down in little releves. “Bucky…”

“It’s the coolest pair of shoes I’ve ever seen.”

Bucky was positive he was in shock as he reached in to pull one of them out. Tingly fingers, a little dizzy, a little spacey...he flipped the shoe over and holy shit, it was actually the right size! How the hell did Steve know his shoe size!? He turned to his sister and held one up for her to see. Judging by her reaction she definitely agreed that these were, without doubt, the coolest mother fucking shoes anyone had ever seen...ever! Bucky bent over to read the little label inside the box and it said ‘John Fluevog: Duckie’ and he couldn’t help but grin. He smiled because it didn’t matter that he didn’t know how to spell ‘courriour’, ‘coriour?’, ‘currioure?’...no fucking clue, but it didn’t matter in the slightest. Steve took the time to pick out amazing shoes for him that were _so_ Duckie! Jon Cryer could tap his toes together in these ridiculous shoes and it would be fucking perfect! Bucky shifted the black leather dress shoe back and forth in his hands, poking at the super pointy toes and running his fingertips over the two narrow straps that buckled across the top. There was intricate white stitching criss-crossing and outlining diamonds and stripes that had been cut out of the black leather. Bucky touched each bit of white that peeked out from underneath and thought about the perfection of pristine white snow.

“Pretty in Pink,” Natasha smiled. “They’re perfect.

“He knows my shoe size.”

She re-tucked the towel around her chest and gave him a tiny kiss on the cheek. “Of course he does sweetie. Of course he does.”

*****

 

Tony will never ever be too cool for school dances; never too cool for school. Well, that was a total lie because he was obviously the coolest homosapien at this cute little school for Neanderthals. He’d met all the abysmal graduation requirements Sophomore year so he didn’t even technically have to be here. But whatever, he looked at his phone, at this particular point on the four-dimensional space/time continuum: eight-thirty-five pm, September thirtieth two-thousand-sixteen, Tony Stark was _not_ too cool for school dances. Yeah, yeah, yeah they’re just overblown rights of passage indoctrinated into the delicate teenage psyche by pointless tradition. Traditions like the irrational need for posed formal wear photography under balloon archways with some basic date, whose name you won’t even remember in twenty years, and blah blah blah. He laughed as Lola posed like a supermodel next to a bored looking Skinner under the helium Arc de Triomphe and Tony reached up to adjust his super sharp bow tie.

The dance floor was filling up and Tony squinted at the crowd with his newly-opened and most-likely-queer-eyes, and he realized something profound. Most of these kids were giant weirdly shaped dicks. He didn’t think they were dicks last week, but now...dicks everywhere. He looked down at his excellent suit. He’d never be too cool to waste an opportunity to wear a really cool suit… huh, Tony looked around again and all he could see was dancing dicks, and dicks drinking punch, and dicks in puffy dresses, and dicks with ties around their dick heads, and dicks dicks dicks. Who was he kidding? He didn’t need a school dance to wear a cool suit! He wore cool suits every single day! Just yesterday he wore his juicy new Prada number with no school dance in sight! So! Many! Dicks! Maybe he just liked school dances because it was a great excuse to get wasted? Good idea! He pulled his flask out of his coat pocket and took a sip which immediately made him realize that he didn’t need an excuse for that either! He totally got wasted last night, and all he was doing was building a new interface with Laufeyson in his workshop! Tony had drank way too many shots because he was a stubborn alcoholic and Loki wouldn’t play his game. He kept lining up two shot glasses, one for the master and one for the apprentice, but the apprentice was a snobby diva and refused to consume his shots, so Tony just drank them both. All night long. He woke up passed out on his computer desk and that sarcastic Sherlock had poured two shots and left them right in front of Tony’s drooling face! There was a point somewhere, oh yeah, he drinks! Fuck it, his logic was not Spock-caliber this evening.

Thankfully Tony had Peggy on his arm! His favorite British bombshell could distract him from all the bouncing dicks and his overcomplicated thoughts about the nature of cool. He wrapped his arms around her waist and whispered in her ear, “I think we’re too cool for this stuff.”

“You’re absolutely right, we most certainly are.” She layered her arms over his and they did a little romantic side to side dance, even though the DJ was playing ‘Drake’ or some other Salsa beat crap.

“We even _look_ too cool for this scene,” Tony chuckled and tucked his chin over her shoulder. He thought about the smashing Homecoming picture they just took. Smashing baby! Peggy insisted on kissing his face before approaching the balloon arch so when the snapped the picture he had bright red lip prints on his cheeks and forehead to match his bright red Gucci suit with the gaudy flowers splashed all over it. The lipstick kisses were ‘to add spice’ to quote the sassy London firecracker. Peg had on a killer fifties style black dress, with a scandalous lace top that she’d coordinated with _his_ suit. Gender Equality is a very important cause that everyone needs to rally around! Plus, he just wanted to buy this suit, and if Peg showed up wearing red it would have been unbelievable embarrassing! Worst dressed couple on Page Six. Not happening! Tony stood on his tiptoes and did bunny ears over Peg’s perfectly coiffed head then pinched her caboose as the flash went off so she looked like someone just pinched her ass in the picture! Hilarious! That photo was gonna be one for the very big, very dramatic Stark family mantle! Oh wait, there _weren’t_ any pictures on the Stark family mantle. That’s right, because they would infringe on the delicate balance of his mother’s Feng Shui Parisian Fusion interior design. They couldn’t have that now, could they? It would look better pinned up in his shiny new workshop anyway; with his shiny new undergrad assistants, and his snarky Slytherin sort of partner, because he wasn’t too cool for MIT! There were no dicks dancing to Drake at MIT! He took another drink.

When he first escorted his beautiful platonic date into the Eaton gym Tony had cackled and spread his arms out to spin in a Sound of Music circle because it looked like an overgrown jungle on steroids. So many fake trees, fake vines and a general overabundance of fake foliage everywhere, because you better bet your ass that Eaton Academy spared no expense when it came decor. It was ‘really spectacular. Spared no expense. It makes the dance we had in spring look like a petting zoo’, Tony cracked himself up and craned his head around looking for the Velociraptors. Every single time Eaton held a dance this room was magically transformed into Venice, or Vegas, or Volcanos...not really volcanos, that just started with a ‘V’, and Tony was on a voracious roll with the ‘Vs’ right at this very moment. Regardless if the theme started with the letter ‘V’ or not, it was always decked out in whatever theme Pepper and her very dedicated social committee decided was the most ‘hip’. But tonight, oh this one made Tony scrunch up his cheeks and laugh and laugh and laugh, because what the hell? It looked like an impenetrable jungle ready to swallow up Ponce de Leon and Christopher Columbus before they could even get the New World started. He pulled at one of the giant fake leaves sticking off a red fire extinguisher, that can’t be up to fire code, and snorted. ‘The Jungle Book?’...maybe? Tony had no fucking clue. Didn’t really care.

He wasn’t supposed to be playing with fake leaves anyway, he was supposed to be watching the door with the rest of his marvelous limo crew, his ‘2 Live Crew’, his Motley Crue, and wait for the dramatic grand entrance they’d all been dreaming of since they were pretty princesses painting nipples onto Barbies with red nail polish. Tony raised his punch, that he was only pretending to drink, towards Trustworthy Sam and his date...who must be invisible. Oh yeah, Sam’s date was _nobody_ because he thought going stag was cool. It wasn’t. Sam smiled back at him and raised his punch, that he actually _was_ drinking, before clinking his cup with the Adorkable Scott and his date...also _nobody._ Scott didn’t have a date because he was a total dork and didn’t even ask anyone. Tony needed a real drink and those two needed to get laid. Spontaneous trip to Amsterdam anyone? Tony tried the next crew member, raising his glass to Ezra and his date...okay, this was pathetic. He blew out a breath and leaned his head further onto Peggy’s shoulder. He knew what he was thinking was perhaps a dick move, not quite Dancefloor Drake Dick level, but probably Jersey Shore Dick caliber. But alas, it couldn’t be helped because in all honesty Ezra never went out with the same girl twice. Tony could not, in good faith, include this girl in his marvelous limo crew roll call. He kissed Peggy’s neck because she was a badass female and didn’t put up with the kind of shit Ezra dished out. That’s why Tony loved her.

Natasha, a Tank Girl that Tony could initiate into his crew without hesitation, one who could lead the whole damn thing in fact, was bouncing her head to the music while her date Dee Dee Ramone held her hand and glowered at everybody. Tony knew for a fact that Dee Dee Ramone had never attended an X-Men First Class Eaton event and his eyebrows were very judgmental as he scanned the crowd. Tony had to admit he was impressed that a dude with a mohawk twisted up into some sort of Viking/Warlock/Gwen Stefani hybrid could look so tough. The fact that he was decked out in a forties style zoot suit with suspenders and pegged trousers was impressive by itself, but the really impressive feat was Dee Dee landing an elusive creature like Natasha in the first place! She had on a classy red dress that was simply divine and they looked like they should be drinking Martinis in a smoky back room with Dean Martin and Frank Sinatra. Clint would have a cigarette dangling out the side of his mouth, smoking without ever touching it, and covertly counting cards in a high stakes poker game. Natasha would be distracting everyone with her beauty while she picked pockets and lifted jewelry until they made off with every last Rat Pack dime. Tony was baffled by this combo, but he’d have to ponder the Law of Attraction and the irresistible power of pheromones later. The 2 Live Crew… ‘everybody say hey, we want some pussy!’, had agreed in the limo that Steve and Bucky deserved a big stereotypical movie entrance at this Homecoming Dance. Clint went on and on about how it was a golden opportunity and they’d be fools to waste it!

Tony took a drink from his wonder flask. Sneaky TJ had ever so kindly slipped a lil’ sumthin’ sumthin’ extra into the engraved silver container when they first arrived in the jungle because he was a scandalous little peach. After taking a couple tiny sips he grabbed Peggy’s hand and spun them both around to enjoy the big show; and the show did not disappoint! Captain Steve Rogers marched right up to the double doors, which were framed with green Miracle-Grow vines and white twinkle lights. Tony snorted, because seriously, was the theme ‘Tarzan?’ Was Tarzan gonna swing across the dance floor at some point and rescue Jane off the stage?

He snorted again and Peggy slapped his ass. “Tony, let them have their moment.”

Maybe he should snort again just to get another ass slap? God, Tony _loved_ TJ for this illegal vicodin treat! Any concoction that let Tony picture gorillas and snakes and Tarzan and Jane...he did the Tarzan noise and Peggy elbowed him in the ribs.

“Ouch!”, he whined. Rib elbowing was not as fun as ass slapping.

Peg pointed a red fingernail toward the door and Tony swung his head over. Oh yeah...Steve.  Steve was majestically standing under the Tarzan vines in his custom tailored suit, cutting quite possibly the most unbelievable silhouette Tony had ever seen. Yeah, he’d seen Steve in a ton of suits, they had similarly annoying ‘parents’ that required their attendance at similarly boring events over the years. Maybe that’s how they became such good friends; bonding over bad parenting in boring suits. But Tony had never seen him in anything like this one: European fit, tight, three pieces of perfect tailoring moulded over his broad shoulders and tapered perfectly to hug his unnaturally narrow waist. And that cheeky bastard had a pocket chain! Tony didn’t even have a pocket chain! Why didn’t he have a pocket chain!? The delicate silver links ran from Steve’s vest pocket and looped over to the second button and it caught the light from the twinkly Tarzan lights as it swung. Steve Rogers with a pocket chain was something Tony never thought he’d see, or even knew that he wanted to see, but it was. Wooo was it ever! It was a good thing Tony’s ‘Super Gay/Bi/What-am-I Exploration Mission’ was tomorrow night because hot damn Steve! Hot Fucking Damn!!!

Heads started turning and Dicks stopped dancing to watch Steve weirdly stand there for a minute giving the empty doorframe little smiles and encouraging head shakes before laughing softly at nothing. He looked insane. Hot...but completely insane. Tony took a drink of his yummy vodka-plus and enjoyed how ridiculous Steve looked talking to the vines.

Then, da da da daaaaa, Bucky Barnes finally stepped into the empty spot so Steve stopped looking like a crazy vine loving freak… maybe the theme was ‘Poison Ivy?’...no, that didn’t even make sense...anyway, Bucky Barnes stood next to Steve and smiled so purely that it even made Tony smile, and they rest of the Motley Crue smile, even Tommy Lee over there in the zoot suit smiled like he was made of rainbows and kittens. There were fireworks and Pomeranians and heart shaped balloons and a skywriter spelling S ‘hearts’ B above the stupid vines because it was so undeniably romantic. Tony was _not_ the romantic type, he sucked at it actually, but Bucky smiling at Steve made him feel like his toes were digging in the white powdered sand on a private island, watching the most spectacular sunrise as he proposed to the love of his life underneath a thousand white doves fluttering in a synchronized Disney dance around his head.

More drinking! Yes! Tony needed more drinking! He took another covert sip because sure, Tony saw Bucky’s sugar daddy suit in the limo, and the magnificent shoes that Tony was really jealous of, but seeing them standing together under the King Kong vines... ‘King Kong?...’ maybe...he took another swig. Damn TJ, good job!  But seeing Bucky under the ‘twinkle twinkle little star’ twinkling lights was inspiring or something. Steve leaned over and kissed Bucky on the cheek and now it was getting gross. He threw a flowered arm dramatically across his eyes, pretended to faint into Peggy and yelled, “my eyes cannot handle this romance! It’s overwhelming my delicate sensibilities!”

“Oh Tony, stop being jealous and ask me to dance.” Peggy poked him in his stomach and the moment was officially Fin.

The Drake Dicks kept dancing, and the Hungry Dicks kept eating shrimp cocktail and drinking punch, and the Hairy Dicks kept giving Steve and Buckmeister dirty looks, which led Tony to a very important conclusion. All the people he truly cared about in this jungle…’George of the Jungle?...ha, no!...all his real besties were basically ignoring the Dicks that Tony very intelligently no longer gave any shits about. Even when those Dicks said rude things or shouldered them on the dance floor his Limo Crew kept right on having their own fun.

Tony was dancing with Sharon, who still had no rhythm, while he pondered this new reality. The other day he had a very serious discussion about the politics of High School with his new genius buddy Skinner. Why hadn’t Tony been friends with Skinner this whole time!? It pissed him off, because damn, that cat was onto something. A lot of things actually. Maybe they _were_ all mentally beyond this High School shit! Or, as Skinner put it: ‘This is purely a matter of Evolution. The divide in humanity is becoming more evident with the expansion of technology and social media. Some brains are more highly evolved than the masses and interacting with people who can’t even conceptualize higher levels of compassion, understanding, and acceptance is a waste of valuable time’. Was it a snobby hypothesis? Fuck yeah it was! Was Skinner right? Fuck yeah he was!

Sharon almost fell and Tony barely caught the slippery pink fabric around her waist because he was getting a little bit tipsy. Tipsy and warm and Steve was dancing with Bucky right next to him and they were sooo gay! So happy and gay and gay, both meanings. Steve wrapped his arms around Buckyclucky and Tony had a Eureka moment. The only reason he graced Eaton with his presence was to hang out with kids his own age; to pretend for a few hours every day that his highly evolved brain wasn’t constantly figuring out how to wire robotic limbs into the central nervous system or running calculations on his sustainable clean energy project. But now that all the Dicks were subtracted from the equation maybe he could just see his Limo Crew on the side? They could be his side-chicks and Tony could devote the extra time to his work at MIT? He and Laufeyson were chasing something big and if he could just get a few more brains like him on the project they…

He looked at Sharon with her pretty pink dress and sparkly lip gloss and gave her a big juicy kiss on the cheek. Not tonight though... tonight he was gonna attempt to dance with this uncoordinated cutie, rub his face in Peggy’s lacy boobs, try to figure out the vague theme of this shin-dig...‘Little Shop of Horrors’?...no, probably not...and let everyone grab his duck butt while he got wasted!

Wasted. Wasted. He was succeeding at the ‘get-wasted’ part, because when Buckasaurus mosied over to stand next to him when they called the Homecoming court people to the stage, Tony definitely pinched his ass.

“Stark,” Bucky rolled his eyes, “you’re not allowed to pinch my ass.”

“I forgot to bring in the buttons!”

Bucky just looked at him like he was a drunk idiot, because guess what? He was a drunk idiot!

“I had buttons made for you ‘queer as folk’ queer folk, like five hundred of them,” Tony snorted, “and I fucking forgot them in the trunk of the limo!” He pinched Uncle Buck in the butt again. “What am I gonna do with five-hundred buttons?!”

Bucky-doodle-do cracked up and jumped away, and Tony sang, “Bucky-doodle-do”, while he swayed right into the hot chicken’s muscley side. “I ran out of gay celebrity names for you Bucky-doodle-doo, so now you’re a Bucky rooster in my brain.”

“Tony, shut up and watch this,” Bucky laughed.

So they stood there in the jungle...‘Predator?...no...although that would be the best theme...and watched Peggy, of course, win Homecoming Queen. Tony shared some drinkies out of his law-breaking flask with his ‘Gay/Bi/Who-Knows Mission Wingman’. Sharing was caring and Buckalicious was the elusive key to the butt stuff! Tony hiccupped and laughed when Pepper announced Steve’s name as the King and shouted, “Elvis!!!”. Steve as Elvis was no surprise because the school cast their votes before Gay-Gate, so fuck all these Dicks! Fuck all these Tricky Dicks! But there _was_ some surprise when Barnes and Noble took another very long swig from Tony’s flask while bouncing nervously on the heels of his killer shoes like he was waiting for a bomb to hit. Perhaps maybe Tony should clue him in on the special sauce? Definitely maybe, because BB sucked in a shaky breath and drank a lot more…

On stage Steve let go of Sharon’s hand and stepped forward to let Pepper put the gold crown on his head and Bucky mumbled, “all hail The King of the Jocks”.

Oh fuck, this wasn’t just Buckysauraus Rex, this was _Steve’s boyfriend_ , and Tony was gonna be in so much fucking trouble! He watched in silent horror as Bucky tipped back the flask while they listened to the room around them; it started off with mostly applause but then there were a few ‘boos’ and Bucky tipped it further, and a few ‘homos’ and he tipped further still, and then louder voices yelling ‘fag,’ and Bucky took another huge gulp.

“Uhhh, Bucky maybe…”

Then the Atom Bomb dropped. Elvis was walking off the stage and helping Queen Peggy down the stairs when some Giant Dick shouted, “look! Eaton has _two_ Homecoming Queens this year!”

The mushroom cloud blasted onto the ceiling as over half the room started laughing and Tony knew at that moment that the shock wave had thrown him across the line. He _was_ indeed too cool for High School dances. He was too cool for the Dicks, he was too cool for the teachers that knew less than Tony did in fifth grade, he was too cool for cafeteria politics, and most of all, he was too cool for close-minded, homophobic, high society snobs that turned on people just because they were different. He was also too drunk for High School. He was college level drunk almost every day so he just needed to go be drunk there. He was too cool for High School in every single way a person can be too cool for something, and he wanted to pull himself and all of his friends out of this nightmare! Now!

Out of the corner of his eye he saw Bucky cringe and as Tony turned to say something comforting or encouraging or rousing he saw his blue eyes transform into something animalistic and dark. Not like an angry bear, more like a stalking panther? No, he wasn’t black like a panther, he was more spotty. What type of animal was spotty and stalky? Too drunk for animal comparisons. Since the animal thing was a bust Tony would normally make a Transformers joke or a Two-Face reference in his brain right about now, but even completely wasted Tony could see that Bucky’s face was fucking scary and not a joke. There was no joke here as Bucky’s chest started to heave in that gorgeous Tom Ford suit. Nothing funny about how Bucky took one last gulp before shoving the almost empty flask against Tony’s chest. Oh shit. Shit! Shit! Shit! Shit! Steve was gonna kill him!

“Bucky, buddy you okay over…” Tony slurred.

“No.”

Bucky roughly shoved past Rhodes and Bruce before Tony lost sight of him in the cover of the hanging vines. From this direction the dangling leaves were backlit by the red ‘Exit’ sign and looked menacing as they intersected in jagged shapes across the ceiling. Tony thought... ‘Evil Dead’...maybe that was the theme. He took the last drink from the bottom of his flask and tried to pretend that the black vines weren’t about to impale Bucky and his perfect blue suit.

*****

 

What the hell did Tony have in that flask? Something eight-hundred million fucking proof obviously; or drugs. Did that asshole fucking roofie him? Bucky tried to shake his head to clear it, but the people called Steve names, and some asshole called him a fucking Queen! Who the fuck would say that!? Bucky was totally fine until the mother fucking Homecoming court bullshit, having a great time even, but then Tony gave him that flask and he was an idiot for taking it. He was an idiot for taking way too many swigs out of it. Long story short, he was a fucking idiot. Period. He didn’t want to get fucked up tonight, this was a very very special night, he and Steve had plans, and he was in this gazillion dollar suit and these boss-ass shoes and he just wanted to be here, and be with Steve, and support him for being so fucking brave. Then Tony gave him that damn flask, and now he was standing in the dark next to the pool staring at his reflection in the glass windows at the far end of the room, like a loser.

He needed a minute, just a minute to slow all this down and not puke. A minute to stop being pissed at himself for drinking out of that mother fucking flask! Fuck! After he made it out of that claustrophobic room and got away from those horrible people he wandered to the pool because sometimes thinking about moving his body through the water helped him focus: to think about the simplicity of swimming. Just moving his arms and legs and going fucking fast. He liked that. That was easy. But this? This was bullshit. He was bullshit. Bucky took in his reflection and laughed at himself. Look at him in this fuckin’ suit! And these shoes he didn’t deserve. They were Duckie shoes after all. Maybe that’s what Steve was trying to tell him with these shoes; that Bucky wasn’t Molly Ringwald like he thought he was. He wasn’t the one who was mother fucking ‘Pretty in Pink’! No, he was Steve’s Duckie. The snarky guy that was funny and cute and obviously totally right for Molly Ringwald, but she left him on the steps at the dance anyway and chased after that undeserving rich guy. Bucky kicked the pointy toe of one Duckie shoe hard against the glass and realized that Steve _was_ Molly and he _was_ Duckie and he was an idiot. A stupid drunk idiot.

He let his spinning head fall forward against the cold glass and bounced it in time with the words ‘Bucky Duckie Bucky Duckie Bucky Duckie’ that were beating through his mind in time with the vibration of the bass that was sneaking through the vents. He just needed to stop himself. It was just the flask. Steve was _not_ Molly Ringwald. He wouldn’t do that. He wouldn’t!

The enormous room was dark except for the subtle blue glow from the underwater lights and the view outside the window was different from his usual bathroom angle. Maybe something on this side would be distracting enough to let him go back to his friends; back to his goddamn boyfriend, if Steve even _wanted_ Bucky to come back after he ran out like a loser. The pool windows were at ground level on the back side of the school and they pointed towards the street. Taxis were parked in a long line waiting to take teenagers in stupidly fancy clothes to stupidly fancy afterparties. Poor taxi drivers, didn’t they realize these kids were rich as fuck and all have private car services? Didn’t they realize that his new rich boyfriend’s friends were rich as fuck too, so now Bucky was supposed to go to a stupidly fancy afterparty with his punk rock friends in a stupidly gigantic limousine that wasn’t even rented because the Starks fucking owned it!

Bucky bounced his head in halftime and caught site of a stupid hipster walking six dogs of assorted sizes. As he trotted by, with his bushy beard and his pegged jeans, he was completely staring at his phone. Like, how do you walk six fucking dogs without watching where the fuck you’re going!? Maybe one of those stupid taxis would run that dumbass over? But not the dogs. Bucky liked dogs. The taxi drivers were stupid and the dog walker was stupid, but Bucky still let himself go there for a minute and just pretend he was somewhere else, that maybe he had a hipster beard...to psych himself back up...to let the nausea pass…

“Well, if it isn’t the faggot, all by his lonesome in his pretty boy suit. Steve dressed you up like his own little doll didn’t he?”

Bucky banged his head forward with one more hard hit because of course this was happening to him. Why not? Why doesn’t the universe just rain down every horrible fucking thing onto his head just for kicks? Bucky flipped around to face him and the room shifted sideways as Brock came into view. He was wearing a black suit and looked more like a mob boss’ son than Bucky had ever seen. He was stalking up the edge of the pool towards him with his head tilted down and a horrible grin on his face. Bucky was too fucked up for this and he almost wanted to laugh because what else was he supposed to fucking do!? He tried to move towards the doors but he was stupidly in the very back fucking corner and with Brock closing in on him there was no way out, except to jump in the goddamn pool in this eight thousand dollar suit, which he was seriously considering.

Instead he tried a tactic that he knew was useless before the words even left his mouth. “Leave me the fuck alone!”

Brock was closing in on him and he snarled, “can’t do that Princess,” as he started backing Bucky into the corner.

All Bucky could think of was what Frank the asshole fucking said; that Brock wasn’t ‘just having fun anymore’. What the fuck did that even mean? Oh shit, he felt like he was gonna puke. Why did he leave Steve to come in here? Why the hell was Brock backing him into the corner? Dammit, why did he drink from that fucking flask? The room rolled and Bucky could feel himself being sucked backwards. He tried to talk his way out of it, even though it was fucking useless. “Brock I don’t wanna get inta it with you. I…” God he couldn’t see straight. “I don’t know wha your fuckin’ problm is with me…”

“You wanna know what my fuckin’ problem is? You make me sick! You and your _boyfriend_ . I once counted Rogers as a fuckin’ friend, before I knew he liked sticking his dick into _things_ like you!”

Brock was close enough for Bucky to smell the whiskey and cigarettes on his breath and it hurt when the asshole poked a hard finger into the the shoulder of the suit, the suit from Steve, god, where was Steve? Why was Bucky such an idiot!? Why did he leave the gym in the first place?

“But Rogers isn’t here right now is he?” Brock shoved Bucky hard, and he stumbled back against the glass. “In fact, nobody is.”

Bucky closed his eyes because he was too messed up to fight back, he was a fucking idiot. He might as well just let this evil prick go ahead and beat the holy hell out of him and ruin the beautiful suit. Steve might forgive him. It was only eight-fucking-thousand dollars. Bucky laughed outright thinking that Steve was probably gonna get a beating of his very own when Alexander found out he _bought_ Bucky the suit, and now Bucky was gonna get his ass kicked _wearing_ it. Jesus, what the fuck were they thinking?! At least if Bucky just took the beating his dad could finally expel the prick...that would be worth it. But he waited and waited for a hit that never came. He was afraid to open his eyes and the sucking feeling in his brain was getting worse. Just as he was about to crack them open he felt Brock step right up against him.

“Wha th hell are…” Bucky snapped his eyes open and Brock was an inch from his face. Yeah, he was shorter than Bucky, but since he was a fucking idiot and was wasted he was pressed low against the glass where Brock had shoved him. He wanted to get out of this fucking room and away from whatever the fuck this was. Bucky pushed off the cold window and shoved his chest as hard as he could into Brock, but the reaction was swift and severe. The fucker used the full weight of his body to shove Bucky back against the glass and slammed his palms on either side of his head, “No you don’t, cupcake.” Brock sneered at him and Bucky felt Brock’s leg pressing roughly between his thighs.

“Don call me that.”

“I’ve heard your other boyfriend call you that so don’t try and pretend you don’t like it... _cupcake_.” Brock slid his leg further against Bucky and suddenly Bucky knew he wasn’t about to get hit. He shook his head because this was worse. This was so much fucking worse!

“What tha fuck!” Bucky tried to push him off but he lost his balance. “Get the fuck off me Brock! Wha the hell are you doin!?”

He ground his leg down against Bucky’s crotch and sneered, “shut up pussy!”

Bucky felt rage; like a switch had been thrown in his mind and he suddenly felt anger sharpening his senses and he fucking lost it. He leaned right into Brock’s ugly face and laughed, “but I’m _not_ a fuckin pussy Brock! I don’t _have_ a fuckin pussy! And yet you’re shovin your hard little dick agains my leg. Is that wha this is Brock!? Is that what _all_ of this is!? You wanna fuck me!?” Bucky was screaming now and his words were bouncing in confusing patterns all over the ceiling.

The slap across Bucky’s jaw was so hard and loud that it echoed across the water and made his vision go black for a few seconds. Brock reached down and painfully dug his fingers into Bucky’s ass and snarled into his ear, “you shut your dick sucking mouth you dirty cum dumpster! You shut your fuckin’ mouth!”

“That’s it!” Bucky felt the adrenalin surging from the slap and screamed, “you’re so far in the fuckin’ closet that all you can do is…”

Brock roughly grabbed Bucky’s dick through his pants and squeezed so hard that it instantly brought tears to his eyes and he almost collapsed from the pain. “Say that shit to me again Barnes and I _will_ fuckin’ kill you! I know how to make you disappear, understand? You know who my fuckin’ father is? You think he’ll even bat an eye throwing a whore like you in the river?”

He squeezed harder and it hurt. It hurt so fucking bad. Bucky closed his eyes because he felt like he was going to pass out. He wanted to pass out.

Suddenly there was the sound of heavy footsteps and Brock’s body was ripped off him. Bucky fell down the wall as he felt himself slipping backwards into something he didn’t understand. He drank from the flask, and he came in here alone, and Brock touched the suit. Steve’s suit. Brock wasn’t allowed to touch Steve’s suit. But Brock touched it. Brock touched it. Brock touched it...

He didn’t know who it was right away, it didn’t really matter. Everyone would know that Bucky was just a weak faggot dressed up in paper doll clothes. Then the yelling got louder, and the crunch of a fist making contact made him drag his heavy eyes open. Frank Castle was standing there scowling, and holding Brock up by his lapels with one arm.

“I fuckin’ told you Brock! I fucking told you!” Frank was spitting as he yelled, and Brock’s head was lolling back as he laughed.

“Yeah, yeah you did _friend._ Can’t wait to tell my dad about this, you think he’s gonna tolerate a traitor?”

Frank yanked Brock to his feet and shoved him hard towards the door. “You go ahead and tell your dad whatever the fuck you want. I’m so sick of you _and_ your dad’s bullshit. You think after what he did that I give a fuck anymore!? Fuck you! You’re leaving. Now!” Frank turned and spoke calmly to someone in the shadows that Bucky couldn’t see. “Can you help him find Rogers?”

Who the hell was he talking to? Bucky felt so sick and it wasn’t the liquor.

“Yeah, I’ll handle it.” TJ Campbell stepped out slowly from behind the bleachers, his hands shoved in the pockets of his jacket, and sniffed.

“You sure?”

He chewed the inside of his cheek and pursed his lips together in that angry way that Bucky used to think was so damn cute but then the room spun sideways and he just let himself fall over onto the freezing tiles. The cold felt so good on his head and he wondered why TJ was here? Why was Frank here? Why was he here? He didn’t want to be here...

“Yeah. I’m sure.” TJ sniffed again and looked over at Bucky, who was just lying on the ground, and it made him feel so sleepy. Shiny black oxfords started moving towards Bucky’s face with a click clack click clack and he heard him say, “thank you Frank.”

“Don’t worry about it. Tell Rogers I’ll handle it.” Frank shoved Brock back about three feet then said, “Go!”

Then they were gone. Brock was gone. Brock’s breath was gone. Brock’s hands were gone. But he could still feel them. He could still feel…

“Bucky, can you get up?”

What? Bucky let his eyes trace up TJ’s navy blue suit and saw the side of the bleachers behind him and he laughed. What was it with TJ Campbell and the goddamn bleachers!? What the hell?

“Bucky”, TJ said impatiently and put his hand out for Bucky to grab, “please, let’s get out of here.”

Bucky did not take the offered hand, he just stared at it because he’d held that hand once, or twice, or maybe more. On a field trip to MOMA he’d held that hand underneath TJ’s pea coat on the bus ride back to school and it felt like such an adventure. He’d held that hand again when Bucky asked TJ to meet him under the bleachers during the pep rally. It had been fast that time, just a little secret touch in an empty bathroom. Then TJ _did_ meet him under the bleachers and as kids yelled and pounded their feet above them, Bucky had taken that hand as he let their lips meet. Then the camera flash had illuminated the hand, and their tongues, and Bucky’s arm around TJ’s waist, and it was over. Bucky stayed on the ground looking at that hand and slurred, “why’d you thank Frank?”

The hand went away and knees came into view. Bucky blinked his eyes to make sure TJ really just sat down on the tile next to him and the room felt so still. TJ nonchalantly said, “because, I was heading out for a smoke and I heard screaming. He was the first big guy I found who could help.”

His breathing started slowing down and Bucky imagined cold air rushing in and out in crystallized patterns along the ridges of the tile floor. He reached his hand up to see if the knees were real and let his left hand brush against a knee-cap. It was strange really, that any of this was real. He spoke to the knee in front of him. “You got help?”

“Yes, now come on,” TJ sniffed again and started to stand up, “I’m sure your friends are looking for you.”

“You got help.” It wasn’t a question. It was a confusing revelation.

“Bucky take my hand.” TJ ran his hand back over his short hair and spoke like it pained him.  “Please.”

So Bucky touched TJ Campbell’s hand for the first time in two years and he felt so tired. “I knows you don’t smoke TJ.”

“You’re right, I don’t.” He paused and Bucky’s eyes dragged from his hand to TJ’s face. His pupils were tiny little pins and he was looking at Bucky like should already know everything, and somehow in that moment Bucky _did_ know everything. He knew it would be so damn easy to go there too. He’d just have to ask him...he was already halfway there from whatever was in that flask...

Bucky felt a dark pull in his chest as he let his hand drift up to TJ’s wrist. “You haven even talked to me since…”

“And I’m sorry,” TJ interrupted, “can we not talk about it? Can we just get you back to your _boyfriend_?” He yanked his hand away and Bucky let his left arm fall harshly onto the floor. It hurt and he didn’t care.

“Bucky?”

He felt so sick. He felt so sick and he couldn’t see Steve right now. “th suit’s wrinkled.”

“Bucky, are you okay?”

“No,” he quietly chuckled against the tile and he felt tears starting to fall. “I need to stay for a secon. Can I jus stay right here fff a second?” TJ just stared at him and it made Bucky cry. He just started sobbing because…

“Hey”, TJ knelt back down in front of him. “Hey, that’s it. I’m going to find Steve, just stay here okay? Can you…”

“No!” Bucky shouted, before covering his face with his hands. Then said more quietly, “no.”

“What do you want me to do then?”

“I don know.” God, TJ looked so small. Bucky didn’t remember him being so lean. Or maybe he was the one who got bigger. The light from the pool was casting TJ in a silhouette, and his entire body looked black. Bucky realized that this was where TJ Campbell lived; all the time buried in the dark; where Steve was trying so bravely to escape from. Bucky must have been staring too long or something because TJ slipped his hand back over Bucky’s.

“I’m sorry Brock did....”

“Why havn’ you talked to me?”

TJ paused and his upper lip quivered with something like sad anger. “You know why.”

“Bu you never even _tried_ , ev’n when nobody coul see you.” Bucky was just gonna let himself pass out now. Just drift away where he didn’t know what was happening.

There was the sensation of a fingertip gently rubbing the top of his hand before it was abruptly yanked away. “I’m going to find Steve before I say something I shouldn’t. Don’t move. Bucky, can you hear me? Don’t move!”

Bucky watched the feet running away and he thought...dammit he was such a fuckin’ mess... the water from down here… it didn’t feel comforting anymore. It made him feel sadder... he’d just close his eyes now and let the nice black wave pull him under...someone like him didn’t deserve someone like Steve...someone like him didn’t deserve poetry or music or art...someone like him deserved...nothing.

*****

 

Steve could feel it, sense it; the bipolar connection between them was tugging and pulling at the seam. As he desperately searched the gym, pushing boys in monochromatic suits and girls in sequins and chiffon out of his way, he heard himself yelling with increasing panic: ‘Have you seen him?’, ‘When did you see him last?’, ‘What do you mean he left!?’ and the room started to spin, blurring everything but the need to find Bucky.

He learned the precise sound of foreboding in that terrifying moment. It creeps in quietly; a low rumble somewhere beneath your stomach. The vibration is almost imperceptible so it’s a warning you try to ignore, to deny its very existence, but deep down you know you’re just lying to yourself. Then it rises, crescendoing walls of distorted guitars strumming in discordant patterns over a beat so deep that you can feel it shaking your ribcage. He couldn’t see Bucky! He didn’t know where he was! Daisy said she saw him run out the door! The tension began to wind its way through the vessels of Steve’s lungs and he could feel the oxygen being squeezed out of him as the black noise started crushing his windpipe.

He was running for the door, planning on searching every last corner of the school if he had to, and the foreboding noises beat in time with his pounding heart. Steve didn’t know how he knew, he just knew that Bucky was somewhere and that he needed him. Sam tried to grab his arm as he ran past, but Steve didn’t really see him... he had to find Bucky; to stop the tugging, to stop the noise, to return them to center. Storming through the door he slammed right into TJ Campbell who was running from the other direction.

There was a pause in the noise then, a measure of rest as Steve stared at TJ. There was no ‘excuse me’, no ‘sorry’, no attempt for either of them to move, just the knowledge that crashing into one another was somehow fated. Steve saw the panic in TJ’s stance and the notes of a menacing piano melody began to materialize and build with hissing electronic static. Steve could see the notes behind TJ, stacking themselves in impossibly jagged architecture; the physics of their construction making him certain they were about to fall...but they didn’t. They hovered there for a minute, dark irregular shapes against a violent cloud covered sky, and TJ started yanking on Steve’s arm. He was saying something but Steve couldn’t hear him. He was watching the shapes swaying precariously to the dissonant melody, vacillating in a hypnotizing moment of uncertainty, until they finally started to slip. His heart sped into Tachycardia as the arc of descent created such overwhelming sound that he could only hear screams.

“Steve!” The face that came into focus in front of him seemed distorted. TJ’s eyes had a dark purple to them, not the eyes themselves, but the noise beneath. Steve could barely hear it when TJ grabbed at his arm and whispered insistently, “you need to come with me. Now!”

He ran behind TJ and Steve could feel his shoes barely landing on each irregular shape as they fell; creating a desperate race for the top before he ran out of shapes to step on. Each footstep made the shapes fall faster and faster; crumbling notes dragged by cold fingers from the keys of an untuned piano. TJ led him to the dark pool deck and every black shape ground to a halt as they slid into Bucky’s sobbing form.

One might think that foreboding ended with noise, but for Steve in that horrific moment it ended with silence.

Steve didn’t know what to do when TJ backed up against the bleachers and whispered, “Rumlow”, between clenched teeth.

He didn’t know what to do when he reached down to touch his face and Bucky violently flung his hand away before he could make contact.

Steve dropped to his knees on the ground, not caring how hard they hit. “Oh jesus. Fuck. Oh my god baby. Where are you hurt?”

The deep purple hissing started again as TJ knelt down beside him. “Castle stopped it before it got too far, but Steve…”

He didn’t know what to do with the look on TJ’s face, or the subtle shake to his head. Everything seemed so fuzzy...he couldn’t think because the hissing...the fucking hissing! Steve could barely hear TJ’s voice over the dark noise; he could feel it rattling his cells because what the fuck!? What the fuck!!!

“And Steve, he’s really fucked up. I don’t know what…”

“What!?” Steve completely ignored Bucky’s protests and pushed the hair out of his face to see him. He needed to see him and touch him to make sure he was real. Desperate fingers peeled the strands of hair off his skin where they were stuck to trails of tears. “Bucky?”

“Steve…”, Bucky slurred and gave him a slow smile, but jesus his eyes.

TJ touched Steve’s shoulder and quietly said, “you’ve gotta get him moving Steve.”

The sound of screams rose up from somewhere below the cells, from within the mystery of his subatomic structure. If notorious drug addict TJ Campbell was fucking concerned, then Steve was _really_ fucking concerned!

“Come on Steve. Here, I’ll help.” TJ grabbed Bucky’s hand and started to pull him upright.

Steve quickly got underneath Bucky’s other arm and used every bit of strength to pull him off the cold floor. He managed to wrap his arms around Bucky’s torso so he could keep him standing. Their path was crooked as Steve dragged his limp weight along the edge of the pool with TJ struggling to hold up the other side.

They almost stumbled into the water and Bucky muttered, “Stevie…”

God. He wanted nothing more but to stop and wrap Bucky in his arms and tell him everything was going to be okay, but he had to keep them moving forward. Every step seemed like a mile with the hissing and screaming pounding in a low pulse; knocking with the sound of Bucky’s stumbling feet. It was a gravedigger’s beat; slow and steady but full of shredded earthworms.

Steve tried not to cry as they struggled to get him through the doors but devastation set in as he whispered to Bucky, “I couldn’t find you.”

“I though you didn’ wanna find me…”

There was a thunderous clap in Steve’s hindbrain when Bucky slurred those words, and it flipped everything from black to red in an instant. Why would he think that!? Why!? The black vines that had been squeezing his internal organs suddenly burst outward through his skin in organic arteries of crimson rage. “Fuck Bucky, no… no baby no!”

He was going to kill Brock Rumlow. Red vessels shot out in front of him as he hauled Bucky down the steps to Tony’s limo forming a murderous path that sucked them both into the car. He was going to kill him. As the driver steered them towards the Four Seasons Hotel the pulsating arteries screeched as they wrapped themselves around door handles, champagne bottles, and the leather seats before exploding out the sunroof to entangle street lamps, neon signs, and building facades. The limo sped forward and Steve’s red ropes ripped down everything in their path.

While Steve’s rage was exploding outward he watched in horror as Bucky folded inward. He didn’t want to be touched. He didn’t say anything. He just jammed himself into the corner of the black leather seat and pressed his red cheek against the cool window. His eyes seemed hollow as he stared absently at the city and there was nothing but silence. Steve didn’t know what to do.

He used Alexander’s goddamn Black Card to get them an eight-hundred dollar room on the floor below Ezra’s afterparty, because honestly, fuck the world right now. Tony, Sam and Nat got a vague group text, because Steve was obviously not going anywhere near a mother fucking after-party. Bucky was a little more stable on his feet now that he was up and moving but was wordlessly weaving back and forth as he followed Steve through the opulent lobby and into the confines of the elevator. The mirrors in the moving box reflected no movement as they silently raised up forty-nine floors. In the bright light Steve could clearly see a raised red hand print branding Bucky’s cheek, but when Bucky saw him staring at it he turned his back on Steve and faced the mirrored wall of the cube.

Being an artist was both a blessing and a curse, because sometimes moments painted themselves without permission right before Steve’s eyes. Life transforming into the horrors of Hieronymus Bosch or HR Gieger. He felt them coming again, this new color becoming quickly familiar. Red arteries snaked out between every vertebra, curving around his ribcage in vicious hooks before expanding down his arms to paint horizontal stripes across the mirrors towards Bucky. Steve knew it wasn’t a desire to hurt Bucky that was pouring out of his spine, he only wanted to encircle him in a protective barrier, but each pulsating line crashed against an invisible force field before exploding into dozens of bloody handprints on the mirror. The handprints dripped and oozed down the glass but Bucky’s face wasn’t reflecting; there was nothing except red hands.

Steve was starting to scare himself. Every piece of him wanted to scream at a frequency that would shatter every piece of that fucking empty mirror because why the fuck was Frank there!? Why the fuck was TJ Campbell there!? Why the fuck wasn’t _he_ there!?

Finally the doors slid open and Steve led them silently down the empty art deco hallway towards their room. Why did he always notice things like the delicate white and cream striped pattern of the wallpaper or that the glowing sconces were launching dim light onto the ceiling every ten feet? Why did he notice insignificant detail and pattern when Bucky kept shoving him away every time Steve tried to help him walk? Why was the fucking pattern of the wallpaper important when...when...fuck he couldn’t even think about it. Steve stopped in front of the door and watched Bucky moving towards him in a trance, letting his hands drag over the white, cream, white, cream pattern on the wall. His hair was a mess and the tangled brown waves were falling over his face and fuck…

He didn’t know what to do.

When Steve finally shut the door behind them, he harshly threw the deadbolt to lock the red in the hallway. The room was arranged in predictable perpendicular patterns, making the chaos of their night seem invasive. Bucky just stood there, in between the designated rectangle of the bed and the oppressive rectangle of the dresser. He just stood there like he was waiting for Steve to tell him what to do next.

“Bucky, can you sit on the bed for me?”

Bucky sat.

“I’m gonna help you out of these clothes so we can lie down. Is that okay? Sweetheart, can I do that?”

Bucky nodded.

Steve gently pushed Bucky’s hair back over his ears and looked closer at the mark on his face. It was raised in angry topography and the bright red hue was turning purple at the crest of his cheekbone. The marks from four fingers were clearly visible as they curved into his hairline and his eye was starting to swell. Suck in a breath...hold it in...count to ten. Suck in a breath...hold it in...count to ten…

This wasn’t panic. This was rage.

Sometimes when a person feels uncontrollable rage their only option is to shove it down and bury it deep, trying their damnedest to keep it locked up tight. Steve sucked in more breaths, trying to will it down. He looked over Bucky’s shoulder at the deadbolt and tried to imagine sliding the lock into place to hold back the red. Slide the lock on the red. Slide the lock. The door was pressing inwards with an angry vibration and bright red tentacles were trying to creep through the cracks but Bucky needed him. He needed _Steve_ right now, not his rage, so he grit his teeth and slammed it tight. The lock clicked and the door was just a white rectangle again. He was good at this; locking things up so they couldn’t escape, but this time Steve had a feeling; he didn’t think it was going to hold.

There were so many fucking questions. He didn’t even know what the hell happened, or what Bucky took, or where he got it, or why, but the way TJ looked at him...the look…

Steve swallowed his fear, swallowed his dark side, ignored the bird perched on the lamp in the corner, and gently slid the shiny blue jacket off Bucky’s shoulders. He let it drop to the floor. Then he undid the silk tie and threw it across the room. For some reason it made him nauseous. That fucking tie wasn’t who Bucky was! As his fingers gently undid each pearl button and unclipped the cufflinks Bucky swayed on his feet. Steve reached out to steady him and let the cufflinks fall. One rolled under the bed and he didn’t care. He didn’t care about any of it! When the shirt fell backwards onto the floor Steve stared at Bucky’s exposed chest; the way the tiny chest hairs curled over his skin and the way the shoulder muscles connected to his arms, Steve knew each beautiful piece of Bucky intimately. But the connection was damaged, something was wrong, and he desperately wanted to reach inside his chest and reconnect. He wanted to let his fingers wrap around Bucky’s beating heart to feel what he was feeling.

Bucky just stood there.

“Okay baby, can you lie on the bed so I can get the rest of this off you?”

Bucky fell back.

The lock started rattling when Steve undid Bucky’s belt buckle and saw it. Once it was seen it couldn’t be unseen. There was a tear in the fly of the suit and four distinct scratches in the delicate fibers across…

He became Wrath. Steve lost time as the belt and the shoes and the pants and the socks were flung into sludge filled holes opening in the floor all around him. He found himself staring at Bucky who was just lying there in his underwear.

Bucky didn’t move.

Steve quickly ran his eyes over every inch of him, looking for any outward signs that he was injured, but there was only the brutal handprint on his left cheek. The fucking handprint that branded him, marked him to prove that someone else had dared to touch him. Steve felt like he was going to throw up.

He managed to get Bucky to crawl up and get under the covers, and to drink a full glass of water and eat some crackers from the mini-bar before Steve carefully tucked the bright white comforter around him. His brown hair fanned out on the white pillow and he didn’t move a muscle when Steve kissed him on the forehead.

“I’ll be right back baby. I’m just going to the bathroom for a minute but I’ll be right back. Okay?”

Bucky closed his eyes.

The lock on the bathroom door slipped into place and Steve fucking let it out. He secured one lock and unlocked another. He fucking let it explode!!! He ripped every mother fucking piece of the fucking suit off his body and flung it all violently to the floor and against the walls; every last symbol of what he was. He was done with it! _They_ were done with it! He was breathing way too fast and he watched in the mirror as his ribs started expanding and contracting faster and harder until the pulsating red lines started creeping around his sides again. Each oozing artery wrapped its way around all twelve pairs of ribs until they bled together to stab into the hollow beneath his breastbone. He took a deep breath and let it fill him, every ounce pouring into the hole in his chest until Steve stood there looking at someone in the mirror that saw through red eyes. He always kept this part of himself locked away, but right now Steve could only watch in fascination as it followed the line of his creaking jaw with a pointed red finger. He let himself relish the feeling of allowing it cover him for a minute. Just for a minute...just for a minute...

Steve stayed there for a long time, or maybe it was a short time, he didn’t really know. He didn’t open the door until every trace of the red protrusions had retreated back into his spine and he was looking at himself through bright blue again; until he felt like he could keep it together. It was his fucking job to keep it together! He secured one lock, then unlocked another.

Bucky hadn’t moved when he came out of the bathroom. Not a strand of hair, not the expression on his face, he was frozen.

“Can I lie next to you Buck? Would that be okay?”

“Stevie?”

The voice startled him because it was the first word out of Bucky’s mouth since he said ‘I thought you didn’t want to find me’ when he pulled him off that fucking floor. God, he loved his voice. Steve wanted to cry because he loved everything about Bucky’s gorgeous voice: he loved it when he sang in the car, or when he told a stupid joke, or when he talked about the fucking weather. The words didn’t matter, Steve just loved the notes it made.

Steve tried to sound steady as he whispered, “Yes... baby, what is it?”

“He touched the suit.”

Steve didn’t know what to do. Should he call the fucking police?! TJ said Frank was handling it. But what did that mean!? Should he call Clint? Bucky’s dad? He thought about Mr. Barnes taking a picture of Steve’s bloody face after Alexander...

Steve didn’t know what to do.

Bucky spoke very quietly, like he was communicating from somewhere far away. “You’re the only one who’s supposed to touch the suit.”

Steve stood there and his heart broke.

Bucky finally looked at him, right into his eyes, and Steve could almost feel him again; almost. “Can you hold me Stevie? Please.”

As he felt Bucky’s body relax against his chest Steve gently rubbed his fingertips across his belly and felt something there that didn’t belong. Tonight was the night they were planning to fall asleep together, without getting in trouble for it, for the very first time. Tonight was the night Steve was supposed to make love to Bucky without being rushed or worried that someone was going to barge in on them. Tonight was the night Steve was going to give Bucky his poem and let him know he was falling in love with him. But instead, as his fingers massaged Bucky’s soft skin, he felt something else. It was a feeling Steve couldn’t articulate or identify but he could feel it...something...someone. He could feel it hiding right underneath Bucky’s skin, the imperceptible vibration of it...the foreboding. But he did what people always do, he pretended it was only his imagination and simply did as Bucky asked; he held onto him as tightly as he could and tried not to let Bucky slip through his fingers.

With Bucky cradled in his arms Steve dreamt about blaring alarms and fire engines, viscous red handprints covering Bucky’s entire body and his own hands bubbling with corresponding red burns.

*****

 

John Fluevog "Duckie"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all, you are all amazing and the comments you have been leaving are so thoughtful and encouraging. Keep them coming! I'm going to try to challenge you more on the trivia this chapter. Comment your answers and I will send you virtual desserts!  
> 1\. I referenced the movie 'Seven' three times this chapter. Can you find all three?  
> 2\. Why is it funny that one of Bucky's favorite porn stars is Tayte Hanson?  
> 3\. When Bucky thinks 'this is where TJ Campbell lived; all the time buried in the dark", what Seb role/scene am I referencing.  
> 4\. What movie is the line "Spared no expense. It makes the dance we had in the spring look like a petting zoo" riffing on?
> 
> As always find me on Tumblr (lucidnancyboy), Instagram (JessieLucidArt) and YouTube (Jessie Lucid). I love hearing from you!


	13. The Land of Denial

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Howdy! New playlist for this chapter is up on my YouTube channel (Jessie Lucid). Homework assignment, lol. For a few parts of this chapter to achieve maximum impact, there's a few songs you should listen to before, or preferably during, those parts. During Bucky's trip to Incubus Island, he quotes two songs by Incubus: 'Love Hurts' and 'Wish you were here'. When they are at Tony's apartment and Bucky plays music there are several songs that really set the tone: "Sweatpants" by Childish Gambino and "Music is a drug" by Bassnectar. Then when Steve is bombarded with tank tops, "212" by Azealia Banks is playing (its very offensive), then "Kings and Queens" by Thirty Seconds to Mars.
> 
> Also the painting I'm referencing is 'Bacchus' by Caravaggio, and I inserted it at the end of the chapter, if you want to take a peek. 
> 
> There is a difficult section where Bucky is talking about a specific scene from the movie "A Clockwork Orange". If you haven't read the book/seen the film, it might be helpful to look up the "singing in the rain scene". Warning for non-con, but it really will help understand Bucky's reaction.
> 
> Thank you for all the song recommendations and the comments and the loveliness! A special shout-out to 3763 who rec'd the two perfect songs by The 1975. I'm forever in your debt! You guys rock :)

                                                                         

 

Bucky’s brain came back online to god-awful, non-stop, rude-ass pounding and the unwelcome sound of Tony Stark yelling. Jesus fucking christ! If he never woke up to the annoying sound of Tony Stark blathering on about god-knows-what while jackhammering his tiny fist against a door _ever again_ in his entire goddamn life, it would _still_ be too fucking soon! What the actual fuck!?

He was warm, which felt amazing, and he was under some soft puffy blankets, which also felt amazing. Even though his head was throbbing and his mouth felt like it was full of cotton balls, he was just gonna ignore those problems and focus on the amazing. For example, Bucky could feel the solid warmth of Steve wrapped around his back, and it was good.

For some weird reason, his dad’s half-ass attempt to force Bucky and Natasha to attend Sunday School popped into his head. Phil had managed to drag their Russian, non-believing asses to some forward thinking church in ‘Pre-Hipster’ Williamsburg, a whopping total of three times. Enough times for Bucky to roll his eyes through the first half of Genesis before, on the fourth day, he ground his feet into the living room carpet and said ‘no fucking way’. Well, he didn’t actually say ‘no fucking way’ because Bucky didn’t have a clue how to say ‘fucking’ in English yet, but he did say, ‘nyet, no, nope, and no way’, along with vigorous head shaking before plopping his twelve-year-old ass on the couch to watch Spongebob. Natasha had quietly tip-toed past Phil and plopped her ass down too, grabbing the remote and cranking up the volume. Yeah, she always had his back, even if her methods involved overpowering Phil with Plankton screaming about Krabby Patties.

The look on Phil’s face, marveling at Bucky’s first openly defiant act, was something he’d always remember. It wasn’t the disappointed frowns the caregivers at the orphanage gave him when Bucky refused to scrub the toilets or when he punched that asshole Viktor in the stomach for tripping the little blond girl; it was something like pride. When Phil simply shrugged his shoulders, said ‘I don’t like church either’, and plopped down on the couch too Bucky knew Phil was gonna be a great dad. From that day forward, their little family used Sunday mornings to try out a different hole-in-the-wall restaurant for brunch every week. Bucky and Natasha picked up more English words from the old waitresses shouting ‘sunny-side-up!’, ‘hash browns well done!’, and ‘two breakfast burritos!’ than they ever would have listening to old ladies quoting stuffy King James Bible verses. Also, from that day forward, Bucky called Phil ‘Dad’.

He peeked over his shoulder to see the shocks of Steve’s messy blond hair pressing against his back and was suddenly thankful for those three torturous mornings he spent listening to the infallible word of god, because they let him have this moment. It was hard for Bucky to stop himself from laughing out loud as he looked down at Steve’s sinful fingers, tucked tightly around his stomach, and thought in his most ‘godlike’ voice: _Then Bucky_ _looked over all he had made, and he saw that it was very good! And evening passed and morning came, marking the sixth day._ He couldn’t help it, his chest shook as tried to stifle his laugh. It wasn’t the sixth day, it was actually their tenth day together, but it was fucking close enough. God could cut him and his sodomizing boyfriend some mother fucking slack.

What _wasn’t_ good on the tenth day? That goddamn, incessant pounding! Tony must have been at it for almost five fucking minutes and Bucky wanted to smite him! Curving his spine further against Steve he smacked his palm over his ear, which didn’t block out shit because Stark was a loud-ass-mother-fucking-stubborn-bastard who just...kept...pounding! Bucky could feel himself getting angry, furious even, and his teeth started gnashing together, yeah he knew that mother fucking Bible verse too; the ‘weeping and gnashing of teeth’...so dramatic. Anyway, he just wanted to stay right where he was…

Huh...

That was an interesting question. Bucky really opened his eyes and very quickly realized he had no idea where the fuck he was. None. Zip. Zero. Zilch. Basic analysis determined it was some huge posh room with really wonderful soft bedding, but other than those useless details he had nothing. Literally, nothing. This could be the Holodeck on the Enterprise for all he fucking knew! He tried desperately to jam his hand harder against his head to shut out the noise because, truth be told, Bucky didn’t give a shit where he was at the moment. Mars? Beacon Hills? Gotham? Alexandria? Bucky gave no fucks. He just wanted to stay here forever with the Martians, the teenage werewolves, Penguin and Nygma, and Daryl, god yes Daryl, and hunker down in the space between Steve’s stupidly strong arms. It was a good place; a safe house of sorts, and Stark was fucking it all up...again.

“Time to roll sailors, time to get on the road again!” Tony started singing Willie Nelson, with a god awful southern accent, and Bucky couldn’t fucking take it! He buried his face under the puffy white pillow and willed the dumbass to shut the hell up! Shut up. Shut up. Shut up. But nooo, of course he didn’t shut up. Of course, Tony just upped the ante and made it even worse. Why wouldn’t he start drumming on the door in a beat that didn’t match the song in the slightest? Why the hell not? Bucky could feel the tension starting to build in Steve’s arms and legs. He didn’t move or say a word but Bucky could sense the protectiveness in his tightening hold, and it was good.  

Steve blew out a hard breath and almost growled into the space behind Bucky’s ear and muttered, “fucking mother fucker”, before aggressively leaping out of the bed. Oh shit, Bucky bit his lip then moved his hand to listen because Steve was gonna ream Stark out, and Bucky couldn’t be more pleased. Steve was gonna carve Tony Stark a new asshole and it was good. Willie Nelson!? Seriously, how fucking dare he!?

Bucky peeked out from under the pillow just enough to watch Steve throw open the locks, with much more force than necessary, and fling open the door hard enough that it bounced off the wall. He giggled a little, okay maybe a lot, because if that protector thing wasn’t stuck to the wall the doorknob would have made a huge hole. Steve was really good at leaving dents in things.

It was quite impressive that Steve managed to look really intimidating as he squared his shoulders to face Tony, despite the fact that he only wearing a very tight pair of navy blue underwear; clarification: a _very_ _very very_ tight pair of navy blue underwear. Did he wear those for Bucky? Bucky’s heart fluttered a little thinking about Steve picking out _very very very_ tiny underwear just for him. But that wonderful thought was interrupted when Steve stepped right into Stark’s space and shouted, “Tony! Shut the fuck up!”

“Woah, woah woah friend. What’s got your tiny panties all in a twist? God, those are some tiny underwear Steve! You cutting off the circulation to your balls with those things? Hey, what’s the worst thing about a cheap hotel?” Tony rubbed his hands together and Steve was a solid unamused rock. Tony rolled his eyes, then shouted, “No ballroom!”

Silence.

“C’mon Steve, that was funny. I’m a funny guy and even your stale sense of hum…”

“I said, shut the fuck up”, Steve growled under his breath.

If Bucky were keeping count, which he totally was, Steve just said ‘fuck’ more times in the last few minutes than Bucky had heard him say it...ever. It kinda made him feel all gooey and safe because his clean-cut boyfriend turned into Tony Soprano when he was protecting Bucky, and that felt...good. “Christ Steve, you need a deep tissue massage or something? Maybe some aromatherapy? I can order you some lavender or sage from the concierge. I’m telling you though, it’s gotta be those underwear!” Tony pointed at Steve’s dick and cringed, “so restricting.”

Steve tried to slam the door in his face, but Stark unfortunately threw his hand up to stop it.

“Jesus Steve! I’m just here to tell you that it’s ten, car’s gonna be here in thirty. Wake up Hedwig and the Angry Inch and get your asses to the lobby. Your chariot awaits.” Tony leaned against the doorframe and tapped an imaginary watch on his wrist; tap tap tap.

The sound made Bucky flash back to Tony dressed as the Mad Hatter, with his overflowing cups of magic and mayhem. Not only did Tony Stark feed him poisonous potions, now he was the annoying White Rabbit inflicting time on Bucky’s quiet morning with Steve. What was _supposed_ to be his first _real_ quiet morning with Steve. Fuck that! Bucky violently whipped his pillow across the room and it slammed into the flat screen, making a much louder sound than he’d previously assumed a feather pillow was capable of making.

Steve jerked his head around and stared right at him, and god, there was so much emotion in his face. It made Bucky instantly feel like the worst asshole on Planet Asshole. There was a lot Bucky didn’t remember from last night, like where the fuck he was right now and how the hell he got here, but the ache in his head and the pain on his cheek told him he wasn’t lucky enough to have fallen down the rabbit hole into a bad dream. As Steve stared at him, with so much sadness in his eyes, Bucky remembered. He remembered Pepper announcing Steve’s name for Homecoming King, and how sick he felt when people started calling him a fucking fag; how guilty it made him feel. Steve wouldn’t be dealing with the assholes turning on him if it wasn’t for Bucky! Steve wouldn’t have needed to come to the rescue, and deal with any of Bucky’s horrific shit, if Stark hadn’t given him that fucking flask! He caught a glance of Tony trying to peek over Steve’s shoulder to get a good look at him, so Bucky flipped him off; and it felt so fucking good. It was so satisfying, in fact, that he sat up and flipped him off with both hands... and it was good.

Bucky flopped back, forgetting his vicious pillow attack on the TV, and smacked his brain against the headboard. Fuck! The pain radiated through his cheekbone and immediately the horror of last night hit him full force. Even if he wanted to blame Stark, he couldn’t. Who was the idiot that drank the whole fucking thing? He was. Plain and simple. He pushed the top of his head against the wood, until his eyeballs felt like they were going to pop out from the pressure. It was all his fault. Every horrible second was all his fucking fault.

But he didn’t want to think about it right now, or ever really. He didn’t want to think about it, or talk about it, or acknowledge any of it. He just wanted Stark to go to a galaxy far far away, and for his boyfriend to come back to bed to make his toes and fingers feel all warm and fuzzy again. Why the hell couldn’t the universe give him a fucking break and just let him cuddle with his boyfriend!? Why couldn’t the universe let him feel happy?

Bucky was certain his eyes were about to rupture, Total Recall style, so he pushed his head even harder. Then he heard Tony say, “what the hell?”, and Steve literally shoved him into the hall.

Bucky assumed Steve was going to slam the door in Tony’s face, which would have been a totally justifiable move, but surprisingly he stormed out after him instead. Bucky stopped trying to explode his eyeballs and raised his eyebrows because...well... Steve stormed out after Tony in his underwear, his _very_ _very very_ tiny underwear. Bucky may not always agree with Tony Stark, but he’d been right about the lack of ball room. Steve’s hand was stuck in the crack to keep the door from locking, and Bucky propped himself up on his elbows to try to hear what almost naked Steve was saying to the annoying furball in the hall. It was muffled, but he still heard Steve say, “listen Tony, we need some more time, I have to make sure…”

Stark’s voice was loud and clear because he never spoke below ten. “Oh, the need for morning sex. I get...”

Of course. Bucky let his head fall back and stared at the ceiling, feeling his hair brushing the tops of his shoulder blades. He shook his head a little and tried to focus on the tickling sensation instead of the obvious frustration building in Steve’s voice, but it was impossible. No matter how quietly Steve said it, Bucky still heard it.

“No, it’s, um. Goddammit, I just need to make sure he’s okay before we go. If he even still _wants_ to go.”

Oh right, Steve had to make sure his damaged, fucked-up ass was still capable of functioning like a fun normal guy; that he wasn’t too fucked up to do something as fun as dancing, or spending a weekend with friends. He swallowed the lump in his throat and felt tears stinging the corners of his eyes, because really...was he too fucked up? Was he?

Then it did get quiet, and Bucky could only hear whispers. Whispers about him. Well, he couldn’t blame them, last night was definitely something to whisper about now wasn’t it?

Falling flat he stretched out his arm to grab Steve’s pillow and returned to the space below expensive feathers which featured a soothing lack of oxygen. With the pillow over his head he felt like an Ostrich. Bucky was a genius. Only Ostriches and Bucky Barnes were smart enough to stick their fucking heads into holes and pretended scary things didn’t exist. Were Ostriches onto something? Well, don’t knock it till you try it.

Bucky remembered black shoes and navy blue knees and a lingering touch and knew damn well he didn’t want to think about TJ fucking Campbell, because what the actual fuck was going on there!? He couldn’t even think about what...dammit! He shoved his head further into the dirt. Bucky didn’t even want to know what the hell Tony let him drink, because not only had he never been that fucked up in his entire life, he remembered thinking it wasn’t so bad there. Maybe that scared him more than anything. He couldn’t think about it so he pushed his head even deeper into the ground. Oh, and waking up somewhere without remembering a fucking thing? That was called a blackout right? The last thing he remembered was TJ telling him not to move, which had been a very easy task. Bucky laughed in his hole at memory of TJ’s voice echoing across the ceiling; like seriously, it should have been pretty damn obvious that he was going anywhere except face first onto that goddamn freezing cold tile.

Or Brock...Bucky felt his stomach roll and no, no, no, he did _not_ want to think about any of it anymore. He didn’t want to think about any of it ever again! He was gonna pretend none of happened and everything was fan-fucking-tastic and he was gonna shove his head so far into this hole and really commit to this absolutely brilliant Ostrich avoidance tactic! Reaching both arms over the top, Bucky smashed the pillow even harder onto his face until he could barely breath. He tried to think about late night infomercials with overly energetic salesmen peddling self-help miracles, or stern looking nuns selling ‘The Bible on Tape’. Would it be the loud guy in the polo shirt or Sister Mary that would come to his rescue? Bucky tried to self-help himself; just think about slow dancing, and slow touches, and slow smiles... he needed to put himself in the headspace where he wanted to be right? The power of positive thinking or some shit like that? Or maybe he needed to get down on his knees and pray? He couldn’t remember.

Steve and Tony were in the hall forever, until Bucky heard a woman yell, ‘well, I never!’ and Tony’s obnoxious laughing. The poor lady was probably having a stroke from bearing witness to Steve’s _very very very_ tiny underwear, because classic tighty-whities they were not. And Steve’s dick...well, she probably ‘hadn’t ever’ because it was a rare thing indeed. The thought of some ritzy lady running away in fear at the mere sight of Steve in his undies, made Bucky laugh a little bit. Especially when he imagined her looking back over her shoulder to sneak one more peek. That made Bucky laugh out loud and lift the pillow off his head. It was really hard to breath in that hole anyway. Sucking in a few deep breaths he came to a realization. Well first of all, he was dizzy because oxygen was something he needed, and secondly, maybe that was the trick? He needed to spend more time laughing about Steve’s big dick offending rich ladies in the hall of wherever the hell they were.

Bucky carefully set Steve’s pillow back into it’s spot, pretending he didn’t just channel an Ostrich for the last five minutes, and looked around for clues. It was obviously a hotel room, and the crack in the curtains told him they were high up; seriously, how the fuck did he end up halfway to the clouds and not remember any of it!? No, not going there...refocus. Ok, huge comfy bed, huge room, there was a fucking couch, a whole living room area actually, and the art wasn’t the kind where the fake canvas wraps around the edges of the frame; it was real shit. Tipping his head up he stared at the painting above the bed. It looked like watercolor and Bucky had no clue what the fuck it was supposed to be. He didn’t think it mattered that he was looking at it upside down. He was pretty sure that right side up he’d _still_ have no clue what the fuck it was supposed to be; which was fitting for this morning’s theme, he supposed. All Bucky could deduce was they were in the land of milk and honey, high above the peasants of the city, and Steve was offending women with his big dick.  

Tony’s voice rose again and Bucky heard him say, “Steve…” before pausing. Did he hear that right? Could he possibly have heard something in the way Tony said ‘Steve’? Was there something in his inflection that signaled an impending admission or the revelation of a secret… like maybe, Bucky was just throwing this out there, maybe something about how he let Bucky roofie the fuck out of himself last night? But then Stark just sighed and said, “okay, I’m gonna get you a late checkout and push the car pickup back. Text me when you know.”

Bucky wished he was more surprised that Tony didn’t say anything, because even though he was starting to like Stark, he was still Tony Stark. Bucky rubbed his hands over his temples because they were really pounding, and he laughed because it was all he could do. He tried to imagine Tony starting that conversation: ‘So Steve, I’ve gotta apologize because I let Bucky chug down an entire flask filled with Horse Tranquilizers. My bad.’

The door finally reopened and Bucky felt overwhelming relief as Steve slipped back into the room and walked towards him in slow motion. He felt instantly calmer when Steve carefully lifted up the edge of the white blankets, keeping the warmth inside, and slid underneath. When Steve laid his head on Bucky’s chest, right above his heart, he thought about their Incubus island. Yeah, they needed to go there. Bucky nuzzled his nose into Steve’s hair and he started to smell pineapples. Oh, and who was standing on the edge of that waterfall? It was Brandon Boyd, casually holding onto his delicious pina colada, while showing off his lanky chest in an unbuttoned Hawaiian shirt as he sang to them:

‘love hurts but sometimes it’s a good hurt and it feels like I’m alive,

love sings when it transcends the bad things that are hard and driving,

‘cause without love I won’t survive’.

So true Brandon! So fucking true! Bucky pushed Steve over and smashed his face between his outrageous pecs. This was a much better hole than the Ostrich concept. Fuck Ostriches! Bucky could almost smell the sea salt sticking to Steve’s chest hairs and there was real comfort when he nuzzled his nose as deep as possible and inhaled his scent; like smelling him confirmed he was real.

Bucky grabbed the sheet and floated it over their heads to form a secret cave on the edge of Incubus beach. He imagined Steve carrying heavy driftwood, naked of course, to build them a fire at the edge of their cave and he smiled against Steve’s nipple.

“Pleased to meet you nipple”, Bucky chuckled as he let his teeth give it a tiny squeeze before licking the tip of his tongue around the edge. He’d never done that before, and damn did he want to do it again!

It was quiet in their cave but not silent. Bucky could hear how much Steve cared about him when he started pressing the sweetest little kisses into Bucky’s hair. He could hear how far Steve would go to protect him when his hands started moving in soothing circles over Bucky’s spine. He could hear the palm trees swaying in the distance as they embraced one another, and it was good.

Then Bucky felt Steve do it. He did it and it was _not_ good. He did it and Brandon Boyd, with his flowing brown hair and his Pina Colada with real pineapple slices stuck around the rim, started to fade. Steve pushed Bucky’s hair out of his face and looked at the mark...

“Buck…”

“I don’t wanna talk about it,” Bucky said quietly because he didn’t. He didn’t want to talk about any of it. He just wanted to pretend it never happened and throw tiny bits of Wonder Bread to the Seagulls so they’d swarm in obnoxious circles above their heads.

“Baby…”

He pulled back and looked Steve in the eye, blinking slowly to try to keep himself calm. God, he looked so worried, and Bucky didn’t want that right now. Not at all! The fingers of his left hand crept onto the skin above Steve’s kidney and squeezed. What he wanted, what he _needed_ , was for Steve to look at him like he did in the fucking entrance to the dance last night; to look at him like he was pure and beautiful and good. _Not_ the like he was some some frightened and damaged animal. Bucky _needed_ to feel the same joy he felt when Steve leaned over and kissed him in that stupid fake-plant doorway; when he whispered ‘you’re amazing’ into the shell of his ear. _That’s_ what he fucking needed.

“No Steve, please,” he begged and pressed his fingers harder, trying to communicate somehow. “We had an amazing weekend planned and we were so excited. I’m _still_ so excited Stevie and I don’t want to let….I don’t want that to get ruined too. Can we just deal with it Monday? Can we pretend none of it even happened? That I wasn’t even there? Can we pretend I never left your side and that we were dancing together all night? Then afterwards, we went to Ezra’s party with all of our friends and had the perfect night like we’d planned? Can you please give me that Steve?”

“But we need to tell…”

“No!” Bucky shouted it, hard and abrupt, and the sound was amplified under this fucking sheet inside this goddamn hotel room, because ‘No!’.

Steve inhaled quickly and Bucky felt his hesitation and his worry. It was awful. The way Steve ran his index finger along the edges of the pain on Bucky’s left cheek made everything hurt so much worse. His heart started racing because he needed Steve to understand, to go along with his Incubus spell:

‘is there a spell that I am under,

keeping me from seeing the real thing?’

He needed them to travel there together and get sand stuck in their buttcracks, and laugh at the monkeys trying to steal their beer, and release all the fish they caught on their hooks because they were nice like that. Fish deserved to be free on Incubus Island too!

Bucky’s mind felt like it was skipping; begging ‘please, please, please’ over and over in a mantra. It took awhile, but eventually he could tell that Steve was contemplating. Please, please, please, please, please. Finally, he released the tension in his superhero jaw and his fingers abandoned the mark on his cheek to run over Bucky’s lower lip instead. The gentle pressure as Steve pulled Bucky’s mouth open felt so damn good and he couldn’t stop himself from letting his tongue slide lightly against Steve’s fingertip. He could almost feel the breeze and smell the coconut sunscreen... almost. Very carefully Steve started pulling Bucky’s fingers out of the skin above his kidney. Until that second Bucky hadn’t realized he was still digging desperately at Steve’s side. Why the hell would he do that? But they were almost there so he forgot about it and let Steve intertwine their fingers instead. Brandon was singing in the distance, telling them to lay their heads onto the sand, and when Steve pulled Bucky’s hand to his lips to kiss each knuckle gently he knew they were almost there. He felt warmer already.

Steve looked right at him and blinked a few times before he finally said, “okay.”

The relief Bucky felt with that single word made something flip inside him. He could feel the click. Like Steve gave him permission to be ‘Bucky’ again, or at least pretend to be.

The sheet was still over their heads and Bucky had no desire to remove it as he whispered, “Stevie, I need you…”

“I need you too baby.” Steve’s arms wrapped around his waist and basically squeezed all of his internal organs into one liquified mass.

“Oh my god Steve, you’re kinda mushing me. And by ‘kinda’, I mean you totally are.”

“Well, you’re kinda mushy. Well, you make me feel mushy at least,” Steve laughed before releasing his death grip and switching to a slightly less organ smashing hug. He peppered roughly three-hundred kissed all over Bucky’s face and hair and neck and chest and stomach which made Bucky feel mushy too. A mushy kiss landed on his mushy neck before Steve whispered, “Buck, what do you need from me?”

The answer came way too fast, but honesty often does. “I need you to want me.”

“Well sweetheart, that’s the easiest request in the world, because I want nothing else.”

Bucky felt Steve suck in a shaky breath against his belly button and his movements completely paused like he was waiting for permission or something. He didn’t fucking need permission! It made Bucky mad. God fucking dammit!

So when Steve whispered, “what else do you need baby?” Bucky took a second so he didn’t sound like a dick.

He thought about it, and felt the little puffs of air Steve was sending across his stomach, and the bottom line was he wanted the purity of it back. He wanted Steve’s worry to be gone. He wanted to feel untouched, and he wanted Steve to feel unafraid. But how could he request something like that? How could he expect it? He held as still as possible and felt Steve blowing gently across his belly button.

Fuck it! This was _his_ moment and it was _their_ fucking island and on his mother fucking island he could do whatever the hell he wanted! And what he wanted was for the two of them to be happy. He wanted them to throw their hands up in the air, and dip and weave like lunatics on a super amazing rollercoaster, without a care in the world. He wanted them to have the ultimate FastPass and ride that shit over and over and over again, as many times as they wanted. Then, at the end of the ride, he wanted to buy a silly keychain with an unflattering photograph of Bucky’s hair flying into Steve’s face, and up his nose, with Steve laughing so hard that you easily count his molars. He wanted to buy a refrigerator magnet too! _That’s_ what he needed!

He might have sounded a little too dramatic when he said, “I want us to lean against the wind and pretend that we are weightless, and in this moment be happy.”

“Bucky, are you quoting Incubus at me again?” Steve tilted his head to look up at him and he was doing that cute eyebrow raise, tiny smile thing. Damn, him _and_ Natasha!

“I’m a professional Incubus plagiarist. The sky resembles a backlit canopy with holes punched in it, I’m counting UFOs, I signal them with my ladder, and in this moment I am happy.”

“Bucky…”

“Stevie”, Bucky rolled his eyes like a little shit, because he pretty much felt like a little shit at the moment. “I wish you were here.”

Steve was a little shit right back and just blinked at him, which Bucky endured for a grand total of five seconds before giving in.

“Fine. I want us to be happy in this moment Stevie. _That’s_ what I need. I want us to both be _here_ , together, like nothing else matters. Oh jesus, now I’m quoting Metallica too. Fuck!” Bucky stuck his fingers into Steve’s beautiful blond hair and kept right on going. “Can you just get on the goddamn rollercoaster and show me how you feel about me? I want you to touch me, and I want you to know that you don’t have to ask to do it. Okay? I don’t want to feel weak Steve, so can you please just show me without questioning it? Can you put your fucking hands up in the air and just be happy here? Happy with me?”

Steve nodded slowly, then a lighter smile spread across his face. “You know, Incubus is gonna sue if you keep using their lyrics to woo me. But, yes baby, I can do that.”

“Brandon wouldn’t sue me, we bond over coconuts and puka shell necklaces.”

The delicious nibbling that was happening on his hipbone made Bucky think that he should yell at Steve more often, because this was so much better! He bit and sucked and chewed his way up and down both sides of his hips before sliding off Bucky’s underwear, then his own _very very very_ tiny pair. But he didn’t put Bucky in his mouth, he lightly licked and teased him before climbing back to lay beside him. Then Steve kissed him. They had kissed, lots, but never like this. This kiss was the stuff dreams are made of, or other worldly, or the kind of thing you write songs about. Steve took total control and pulled Bucky’s body against his in powerful waves as he kissed him like he was water. Steve kissed him and Bucky could feel the rollercoaster. They’d clicked to the top of the highest hill and Steve finally let go of the chain, sending them into the most invigorating free fall.

Damn, it made Bucky feel powerful, and before he knew it he’d climbed on top of Steve. This was new, it all was really, and he felt dizzy as he allowed himself to really touch him; to look at Steve Rogers in the daylight and feel his muscles, and his strength, and his weaknesses, and most of all, to see the love in his eyes. It was overwhelming. Good...very good, but holy shit. Bucky saw the love in his eyes as Steve carefully stretched him open, and he could see it when Steve used his tongue to relax him even more. He could see the love as Bucky straddled him and prepared to take control for the very first time.

“I wanna ride you Stevie. Can we try that?”

There was no doubt Steve was one-hundred percent down for that idea because Bucky totally felt his cock jump beneath his ass. Steve moaned and grabbed at Bucky’s hips. “Oh my god baby, yes. Yes, but go slow okay? I wanna watch your face.”

Contrary to popular belief they hadn’t had sex again. Since the party they’d only fooled around with their clothes somewhat on, or somewhat off. Steve had only pulled Bucky’s pants to his knees when he blew him under the bridge, and on the roof before the swim meet Bucky pulled down Steve’s sweats just far enough to return the favor. They hadn’t had sex again, and good god did Bucky want to have sex again! He wanted to have completely sober sex with Steve; to really feel him.

Bucky nodded as he let the curve of his ass slide against Steve’s dick, because he was nervous. Nervous and excited and he wanted to watch Steve’s face too. When Steve took his virginity he’d been focused on the feeling of Steve pushing into him, because holy fuck that was...intense. Actually, intense didn’t even come close to describing how it felt to let Steve push his knees back and expose him like that, how it felt to know he’d done it; he’d let someone fuck him. He still didn’t have a word for it. But this was different. They meant so much more to each other now. Bucky hesitated as he lined himself up; not because he was afraid, but because of the look on Steve’s face mirrored exactly what he was feeling inside. He was biting his lip and looking at Bucky like he was in awe, like he was...it took Bucky a second to process it...but it was there. Steve was looking at Bucky like he was in love.

“Oh god”, Bucky looked at their naked bodies and wanted nothing more than to be as close to Steve as he possibly could. He began to lower himself and watched Steve’s face with every movement. Steve never looked away as bliss and gratitude spread over his features. “Oh my god Steve, oh my fucking god”. Then there was nothing but the feeling of Steve deep inside of him, the strength of Steve’s thighs supporting him, the motion of Steve’s biceps flexing as he lifted Bucky’s hips in a slow rhythm full of intensity, not lust. There was nothing but Steve.

It didn’t take long for Bucky to learn how to roll and move so they were both moaning and sweating and saying ‘oh god’ way too fucking much. Bucky still had moments where he thought: ‘I’m having sex’, ‘I have sex now’, ‘I have sex with Steve Rogers now’, ‘I’m totally riding a cock right now’, ‘do I look as good as Jake Bass?’ but those thoughts quickly shifted to ‘fuck that feels so fucking good’, ‘I didn’t know sex could feel like this’, ‘god Steve’s really good at this’, and ‘how is he mine?’. Flexing his abs, Steve sat up and pulled Bucky into his lap, pressing them together as far as he possibly could. He let his tongue slide into Bucky’s mouth and stopped moving completely.

Bucky couldn’t believe it, because it was almost too much. He could _feel_ Steve’s heartbeat inside of him. That right there, Bucky squeezed his eyes tight and just let himself feel, that right there meant everything and he started to cry. He couldn’t help it. He didn’t know sex could be like this. He had no idea what intimacy really was until this very second. He had no idea that you could feel so connected to another heartbeat. Steve sucked on Bucky’s neck as he began slowly moving them in one perfectly synchronized motion.

“Bucky,” Steve moaned, “you make me so happy.”

Bucky let himself cry as he felt them become one in far more ways than physical. He felt it when Steve knew just the right time to reach into the sweaty space between them to stroke him. He felt it when he came and Steve rocked him perfectly through the sensations. He felt it when Steve pressed his hips up against his ass to come deep inside of him, and there wasn’t anywhere else Bucky would rather be. He felt it when Steve made no move to separate them for a long time and Bucky knew...he knew he was in love.

He imagined both of them throwing their hands up in the air and letting go of everything; letting go and finding their elusive ‘happy’.

Pressing his right cheek against Steve’s ear he whispered, “thank you Stevie, thank you so much”.

*****

 

Steve knew this place well; the land of denial. It was a dark place he’d been trying desperately to leave, stretching his arms to impossible lengths to allow Bucky to pull him out. Black feathers littered the jagged edges of his escape route, revealing the skin underneath in uneven patterns. Determined fingers ripping each piece off in a painful molting... in order to become something better...something he’d always wanted to be. The agony of his escape worth the cost; to get the fuck away from Alexander, to get the fuck away from his fake ‘friends’, to stand up for what’s right, and to make the fading ghost of his mother proud of him again. But Bucky was quite convincing that they should book passage and stay awhile, to make themselves comfortable for the rest of the weekend in the land where reality becomes a vague fog on the horizon.

They were lying face to face in bed, consuming one another’s air, and letting their feet play uncomplicated games with one another. Steve had to admit, after the intimate experience they just shared, staying in this place together was a solid idea. Steve let their lips get impossibly closer and thought about how Bucky’s body felt when he climbed on top of him, the weight of him, and how happy Steve was to support it. He thought about the sensations when Bucky took all of him and how his face transformed into something godly; pagan waves of ecstasy solidifying Steve’s desire to hold them together forever. Those things, and the mesmerizing influx of Bucky’s air contaminating Steve’s lungs with poppies, were so much better than everything outside this place. So yes, perhaps they could stay awhile.

Steve knew he loved Bucky, it wasn’t something abstract anymore. It wasn’t the kind of love where he’d paint ‘Steve loves Bucky’ inside a red heart beneath a bridge, only to change it to ‘Steve loves -insert new name here-’ when the season changed. It wasn’t the kind of love where you stay together when things are picture perfect, then change the picture in the frame when things aren’t. It wasn’t even the kind of love that requires a ring or a piece of government paper to declare it’s existence to the the world. It wasn’t any of those things.

It was true that Steve would happily paint ten-thousand hearts in all the colors of the rainbow on every subway car in the city. He’d find joy in putting the silliest picture of the two of them laughing and smiling into a gilded frame. It was years away, but he could see himself secretly designing a platinum ring for Bucky to wear. He’d tell his boyfriend that he had to work on a commission and sneak away to his art studio. Bucky would be lying on their couch, binge watching the latest show with hot guys in tight t-shirts on Netflix, and shoving caramel corn in his face. Steve would thoughtfully sit at his drafting table, technical pens carefully planning every curve and every intricate detail. He’d spend so much time getting it just right so Bucky would know how much Steve worshipped every curve and every detail of Bucky himself. But those gestures, those accepted symbols of the concept of love, had nothing to do with the immense emotion that overwhelmed Steve as he stared into mischievous blue eyes, and his heart decided its own future.

What Steve was feeling was something ambiguous, something his mind thought was extinct or perhaps never existed in the first place. But his soul was singing a technicolor melody now that he knew there was truth to it; that it wasn’t all unattainable fantasy and whimsical fairy tales. Steve smiled at Bucky, and even though their faces were so close that he couldn’t see anything except blue irises and expanding black pupils, he felt Bucky return the gesture and Steve knew he was right. Somehow he’d discovered the kind of love that means you’ll stick with someone no matter what happens, no matter what the cost, because they’re your counterbalance, your center, and without them you’ll never be whole. It was the kind of love that compels you to put someone back together when they’re broken, not run the other way and leave the pieces for someone else to ignore or kick into the dirt. Steve touched their lips together, further securing their seal, and there were no more layers. Steve had found their core.

There was so much they both should be running from, running as fast as they could to escape the pain of it all, but Steve found such comfort knowing they wouldn’t be doing it on their own anymore. They’d be doing it together. He touched the space above Bucky’s heart and recognized the magnetic shift in their compasses. Instead of running away from their nightmares in discombobulated directions, Steve and Bucky were running in a straight line towards one another, both targeting their own true north. When they collided, east, west, and south ceased to exist and their hearts melded into a single engine with eight chambers; eight chambers beating as one. When their heartbeats synchronized, Steven Grant Rogers knew he loved James Buchanan Barnes.

It was because of that love, and maybe a touch of selfishness, that Steve was going to play by Bucky’s rules right now and stay in the land of denial. He propped himself up on his elbow and started playing with Bucky’s hair, inhabiting a place where the raised red handprint wasn’t a distinctive brand on Bucky’s olive skin; where hints of brown stubble weren’t poking holes in the hot swelling that was pulling the skin of his cheek taut. He imagined it was gone; that it was all gone...the dead skin still peeling off the burn on his arm, the final remnants of the yellow hue tainting his ribcage, and most of all the handprint. Steve felt the weight of his wooden palette as it materialized around the crook of his thumb. He enjoyed the power of his palette knife as he began to mix underpainting white with raw sienna, cadmium red, and prussian blue to create a hue that perfectly matched Bucky’s skin. He used a soft red sable brush to pull broad strokes of paint across the handprint, before blending it seamlessly until only the perfect skin of Caravaggio’s ‘Bacchus’ remained.

Steve laughed to himself because that was perfect. That’s exactly who Bucky was in this land: Dionysus the Greek God, The Liberator, freeing Steve from his normal self with madness, ecstasy and wine. He’d always adored Caravaggio’s androgynous painting of the god, and maybe it was fate that he’d always been inexplicably drawn to it. Steve looked at Bucky and there was no doubt; his boy with the Greek toes had the same rosy cheeks, the same red lips, the same long dark hair, and the same playful eyes as Bacchus. Steve couldn’t stop himself from rearranging the white sheet to fold over Bucky’s left shoulder and twisting it around his arm. He couldn’t stop himself when Caravaggio instructed him to drape the cloth seductively across Bucky’s chest in a loose diagonal towards his belly button.

“Um, Steve?” Bucky cracked his eyes and looked comically down at the twisted sheet.

Steve started chuckling because he couldn’t stop himself from climbing on top of Bucky’s narrow hips to admire his composition. He leaned forward and started twisting sections of Bucky’s hair into large loops and tucking each one behind his head to hold them in place.

“What are you doing Steve? You’re such a fucking weirdo,” Bucky laughed and started to move his head.

Steve touched his fingertip to Bucky’s forehead and applied gentle pressure. “No you don’t. Stay right there Buck. I’ve had a vision.”

“Of doing weird shit to my hair while your dick’s hanging in my face?”

“Shhh.” He pressed his thumb to Bucky’s wine stained lips and smiled. “Don’t move.”

“Fine, but I’m not taking it back. You _are_ a weirdo.” Bucky grinned at him.

“You just figured that out? Took you long enough. Now freeze.”

Bucky chuckled and closed his eyes, allowing Steve to focus on artistically looping each section of shiny hair against the pillow, until it was decadently piled high on top of his head. As artists do, Steve leaned back to contemplate his work. It was close, but he needed...Steve leaned over to snatch the gerbera daisies from the vase on the night stand.

“Now your dick is _actually_ hitting me on my chin, but I’m sure you still expect me to stay still.” Bucky cracked up and tried to snake his tongue down to lick him, but Steve was too fast.

“Buck, you can’t distract me from my art. And yes, I expect you to stay still even when my cock hits your chin.”

Steve broke off each stem so there was only a couple inches remaining, and he nodded to himself as he slipped five flowers into the loops in Bucky’s dark brown hair. He adjusted the godly halo created from petals of pink, yellow and blue, until Steve could feel the ecstasy and the wine. If he could mix this image of Bucky, the God of Liberation, into plaster to make it permanent he would. Steve wanted to stay in this place forever, embedded in the frescos of Rome, but it was almost time to go.

He carefully folded Bucky’s right hand across his belly before slipping a dark pink daisy into the fingertips of his left. And if he moved the sheet over to expose more of Bucky’s chest than the Italian master, well nobody could really blame him.

“Perfect. Don’t move an inch baby, I’m getting my phone to take a picture.”

“Steve, you’re _not_ Snapchatting whatever this is to anyone. Do you understand me?”

“I would never!” Steve laughed and stepped carefully above Bucky so he could get the right angle. “Okay, turn your head a little to the left, and look at me like you’re subtly trying to seduce me.”

“Steve. Are you secretly an overly artistic porn director?”

“C’mon Buck, it’s art! Please, I want to do a painting of you like this.”

“The things I do for you,” Bucky sighed and smiled before perfectly nailing the pose.

Steve was almost positive that Bucky had never laid eyes on the painting of Bacchus, but somehow, he instinctively became his doppleganger. It was magical. Steve blinked at the screen before flopping down next to Bucky to show him. He handed him the phone and started plucking the flowers from his hair, but it did nothing to diminish the likeness.

Bucky stared at the screen for a long minute before whispering, “you made me look beautiful.”

Steve took the phone out of his hand and pulled up a picture of the painting before handing it back to him. “Because you _are_ beautiful Bucky. A muse worthy of great works of art inspired by your magic.”

“You’re on a roll this morning Stevie,” Bucky chuckled. He staring at the painting for awhile before softly questioning, “this is how you see me?”

Steve flipped back to the photo of Bucky and held it up for both of them to look at it together. “Yes, except I only want to visit the museum once in awhile, but I could stare at you for the rest of my life.”

Well, that was too much.

Steve sucked in a breath and was afraid to look at Bucky, because that was _way_ too much. It was a great line, and he meant every poetic word, but it was _way_ too much. He scrunched up his cheeks and just kept staring at Bucky in two dimensions, waiting for three-dimensional Bucky to call him out on his overly-romantic sap. But then Steve felt it; a slow kiss against his cheek and the presence of words Bucky couldn’t speak. They stayed there for a minute, pausing until the screen went dark and Bucky’s stomach growled.

Steve cracked up and slapped his palm onto Bucky’s monstrous middle. “Jesus, that was loud! Wanna get some room service before the car gets here? Tony pushed it to one, so we have enough time.”

Throwing the comforter off them both, Bucky rolled to his side with a smile, messing up every strand of Steve’s painting and flinging daisies everywhere. Steve didn’t mind. Despite his godlike qualities, he preferred the wildness of Bucky, and any fresco should capture his hair as it really was; messy.

Bucky touched the shell of Steve’s ear before tapping his temple accusingly. “Are you a mind reader Stevie? Are you spying on my thoughts? Hmm?” Bucky kissed the tip of his nose before pushing his naked body up off the bed. “I was _just_ thinking that I’m fucking starving and I want eggiwegs!”

Steve marveled at Bucky’s naked body for a moment, because this was a completely new view; a gorgeous view that he could get lost in. “Why didn’t you say something jerk?”

“Well, you were kinda busy creating art or something with my beautiful hair and I didn’t wanna interrupt. I take your art very seriously Stevie, especially when it involves you touching me. Creation and fondling before eggiwegs!”

Light flooded the room when Bucky strolled over to the window and yanked back the curtains, exposing a wall of windows. Steve watched him craning his neck to look at the other buildings, but he was having serious trouble pulling his eyes away from the magnificent curve of Bucky’s ass as he pressed his face to the glass to look down the street.

Steve sat up on his elbows and tried to sound casual when he asked the obvious question. “What the heck are Eggiwegs?”

Bucky spun around and well, that was even harder not to stare at. Steve’s detailed thoughts about the sight of Bucky standing naked before him were interrupted by snapping fingers. “Hey Punk, eyes up here, eyes up here,” he chuckled, “tell me you’ve seen ‘A Clockwork Orange’...”

Steve sat up indian style and tried to stay focused as his stunning naked boyfriend pranced around the room, lifting stuff up and putting it back down. Art Deco lamp? Lift it up, put it back down. Complimentary magazine about the top twenty things to do in New York City? Pick it up, flip a few pages, put it back down. Flower arrangement on the coffee table? Lift it up, tip it, spill water everywhere, quickly put it back down.

“Fuck! I didn’t know these were real! Oh my god, I just got flower water all over my legs! Fuck! It’s so cold!” Bucky was hopping around and laughing. He picked up a throw pillow, wiped his legs off with it, and put it back down. “Steve, are you even listening to me? Clockwork Orange. Have you seen it?”

“Um, I haven’t.”

Bucky lifted a painting away from the wall, stuck his nose behind it, then put it back down. Then he picked up a vase that Steve was pretty sure was Swarovski Crystal and did not put it back down. He started wildly gesturing with it, pointing it right at Steve’s face then sternly said, “that right there’s a goddamned crime Steve! A crime against cinema! They brainwash this dude Alex to stop being a deviant prick, but it doesn’t work, because once a prick always a prick. But he’s super cool! Like fake eyelashes on one eye, and a badass codpiece, and he calls eggs ‘eggiwegs’. Oh, and they drink Moloko out of boobs!”

The vase was flipping back and forth between his hands as he bounced up to the edge of the bed. Bucky was so excited that his weight was shifting from foot to foot along with the repetitive rhythm of the glass and and his energy was the best kind of contagious. Steve smiled up at him like sunshine and started to laugh. He felt so light.

Bucky tossed the vase two feet into the air and gave Steve a glowing toothy smile. Steve never doubted that he would catch it as he said, “there’s this part, where Alex is singing and dancing like Gene Kelly and Debbie Reynolds in the movie ‘Singing in the Rain’ while they….”

The vase dropped heavily onto the bed.

It defied physics and landed on the mattress without a single bounce, rolling towards the edge without inertia. Steve instinctively clambered across the blankets to catch it before could fall and shatter into a hundred distorted shards. He dove for it, his fingertips barely catching the rim, while the momentum tried to pull it out of his grasp. But none of that mattered when Steve turned back to Bucky. The horror he felt watching the beautiful smile dropping off his face and taking every bit of effervescent energy down with it was indescribable. Steve should have let the vase shatter into a million pieces and grabbed Bucky instead! His mistake was crystal clear as Bucky’s shoulders hunched and the air escaped his lungs in shaky devastation. If he sacrificed the fucking vase he could have stopped Bucky from shattering right in front of his eyes! Why the hell didn’t he catch Bucky instead!? Steve snapped opened his fingers and let the vase thud heavily onto the carpet, a useless trinket intact, and tried to move fast enough to catch Bucky too. But he was too slow. Steve could see that right away. He was always too fucking slow!

Bucky’s eyes got big and shifted to the left, his features registering nothing but confusion. Steve gently took Bucky’s wrists in his hands and they felt more fragile than the glass.

“Baby, what’s wrong?”

He stared at the vase on the floor before shaking his head and squeezing his eyes, like he was trying to erase something from his mind. There was no eye contact when Bucky said, “no, nevermind. It’s actually horrible.”

“C’mon sweetheart, what is it?” Steve squeezed the fragile bones held precariously in his hands, hoping that the subtle pressure of his touch would help in some way. He needed it to help; he needed to know he somehow made the impossible catch, because Steve didn’t want to leave land of denial. It was familiar, and with Bucky here it wasn’t lonely anymore. With Bucky here, it was full of lush green leaves and orange embers swirling into the sky. With Bucky here, they could dance The Wild Rumpus under his hole-punched canopy. With Bucky here, there were no gravity sucking birds, no oppressive black vibrations, and no red creature violently rattling it's rusted locks. Here it was just the two of them, and Bucky’s silly visions of Brandon Boyd. Here he could pretend that he never let Bucky fall.

Bucky looked up at him with a sad little smile and whispered, “can you please order me some pancakes?”  

Steve wrapped his hand around the back of Bucky’s neck and pressed their foreheads together because he needed to be right there with him, wherever he was. “I thought you wanted eggs?”

“I changed my mind.”

*****

 

Bucky felt a little better after the pancakes, and Steve got him extra crispy bacon, three orders actually, so that helped. Grease for a hangover, pancakes with powdered sugar to block the horrific thoughts about Alex and his three droogs raping that woman. What the fuck was wrong with his brain!? Like truly, what the actual fuck!?

Their overnight bags magically arrived in their room after Steve sent someone a top secret text. He still had no fucking idea where they were, it was almost a game to him now; don’t ask and see how long it takes him to figure it out. The view helped narrow down his options, he could see the hideous outline of Trump tower down the street, which made him want to pull the curtains immediately. That fucker better not get elected! But seriously, Bucky was somewhere on planet Earth, near the evil lair of the antichrist, and that’s as much as he knew. If he had a clue where his phone was he could pull up Google Maps and get himself pinned, but that was a mystery too. Probably wasn’t safe to use technology this close to Big Brother’s tower anyway. Wouldn’t want to get his gay ass crucified. Whatever. Steve had a fabulous idea. After the heavenly pancakes with the oozing cinnamon butter, the extra crispy bacon and the fresh squeezed orange juice, he suggested that they take a shower together. Steve was fucking brilliant. He could use a shower. He could use Steve scrubbing at Bucky’s skin until it bled, but he didn’t tell Steve that.

The shower was more like a water park. Totally humungous with three shower heads shooting at them from every direction, which was fucking crazy. Who’s like ‘I can’t get clean enough with just one shower head. I must have _three_ high power streams of water bombarding me from different angles to get clean’. Who thinks that? Assholes who gave no shits about the environment, that’s who. Oh yeah, he forgot he was in Trump’s neighborhood. Denial and narcissism must be catching.

Once Steve got the temperature right, and used his big hands to direct Bucky’s hair under the water, he begrudgingly had to admit that it felt pretty damn good; and it felt really damn good when Steve started washing him. Bucky had grabbed for the washcloth but Steve gently took it from his hand and said, “No Buck, I want to. Is that okay?”

So here he was, his palms pressed flat against the warm tiles as Steve ran the fancy washcloth over his back and down his thighs to kneel and carefully scrub his feet. Bucky didn’t even scrub his own feet! Seriously! A quick once-over, sure, but Steve was pressing the soapy fabric between each toe and gently tapping the top of his foot to get Bucky to lift it up so he could wash the bottom.

“Steve I don’t deser…”

“Baby”, Steve interrupted, continuing to rub soapy circles on Bucky’s ankles, “I would kneel at your feet and wash your toes for eternity if you’d let me.”

Bucky laughed, despite the overwhelming urge to tell Steve to scrub harder. “That was the best one yet, highly melodramatic even for you Steve.”

“I’m trying to beat my record.”

“Well, that one definitely got you there. Top prize goes to the sap who pledged eternal foot washing. Did you leave your donkey parked outside last night? Feeling the need to walk on water?” Bucky bent over a little more so Steve was looking right at his ass; _all_ of his ass. “Think the holy father’s cool with you lusting after my ass?”

“You’re the worst”, Steve laughed as he kissed each butt cheek, then gave them a little slap.

Bucky rolled his neck under the spray, well one of the sprays, and tried so hard to let the water warm all the icy spots. There was one in his back, he could feel it, and the water just wasn’t working. He felt Steve stand, sliding the cloth up his legs and over his ass to rub the soap across his lower back. “Steve,” he heard himself say, “can you scrub harder?”

Steve’s hands paused for a moment and Bucky tried to think about the smell of the soap. It smelled like lavender and there were little bubbles rising all around him, because Steve had used way way way too much of it.

“Just a little Buck”, he said as his hands started rubbing in firm circles.

A big bubble floated up in front of Bucky’s face and hovered there in the steam for a second. When Steve’s hands started rubbing up his spine and over his shoulder blades Bucky reached up to catch the bubble on his palm.

Bucky smiled at it wavering there, transparent pink and blue so delicate in his hand. It came from somewhere else when he said, “I need you to scrub harder Steve,” and the bubble popped before his eyes.

*****

 

Okay, fine, Clint could admit it. Waking up in a five star hotel, where he’d made love to his unbelievable girlfriend for the first time, then heading off for another night of fun and adventure was cool. He needed to write thank you notes to his new rich friends or something, ‘cause damn. He took another hit of his joint and leaned against the Valet booth in front of the hotel. Guess if you’re rich enough, nobody says shit when you light up a joint in the middle of the sidewalk while you wait for them to throw your shit in the limo. Probably didn’t hurt that he let all four valets take a couple hits. He chuckled and adjusted the straps of his black suspenders. Good memories of Nat and these suspenders...maybe he should wear them every day, just to help him remember the finer details of how she pulled on them?

God, what was Bucky gonna think? The cloud of smoke he sucked into his lungs to deal with that thought was probably enough to float ten men to the Strawberry Fields forever. It was easier to look at his legs... he’d converted the best parts of his suit into a killer outfit; carefully pegging the trousers and tucking them into the top of his oxblood boots, adding his favorite Violent Femmes t-shirt and the black suspenders. Nat had braided his hair this morning as she knelt behind him, wearing only his dress shirt. He could feel her body slightly touching his back as she shifted to carefully twist the strands of his mohawk. It was honestly a little hard to kiss her goodbye. Clint took one final hit as the Valet put the last of their bags in the trunk, and chuckled to himself at the insanity of it all.

He pushed off the wall just as Cupcake and his Adonis popped out of the revolving doors. He was gonna tease Bucky relentlessly for leaving the dance early, probably to get in a few extra hours of rowdy sex, but he immediately stopped laughing when he got a good look at them. Clint thought maybe he’d overdone his ‘wake and bake’ because there was no way that Bucky was walking out of The Four Seasons Hotel wearing his llama pajama pants; the ones where the yellow llamas were wearing giant red sombreros with tiny little balls hanging off them, and a burgundy henley that was obviously Steve’s. He was bouncing on the toes of his American Flag chucks and when he turned to smile in Clint’s direction there was huge fucking handprint across his mother fucking face!

Who the fuck hit him!? What the hell!? Why didn’t someone tell him!? Why the fuck didn’t someone tell Natasha!? Clint stormed forward to grab Bucky, but he did some serious evasive maneuvers and snuck behind Scott, high fived Tony, and threw himself into the limo. There was no fucking way Clint was gonna let this shit fly! No fucking way! He turned right into Rogers’ path and grabbed his wrist.

“What the fuck!?” Clint snarled, because seriously, what the fuck!?

Steve kept looking forward, staring at the limo as he snarled right back. “He doesn’t wanna talk about it.”

“Steve!” Clint dropped his wrist and took a step right in front of him. “What the fuck!?”

The way Steve turned to look at him made Clint’s stomach drop ten stories. He seemed totally and completely lost when he lowered his chin and whispered, “it seemed like he was doing better, that he was okay, but then he dropped the vase and he insisted on the pants and I just...we’re just going with the plan to not talk about it right now. Monday. We’re gonna deal with it on Monday.”

“Who fucking hit him?” Clint angled his back to the limo so Bucky couldn’t see him harshly poking his boyfriend in the chest. “Steve! Who fucking hit him!?”

“You know who hit him”, Steve hissed, “now let’s go. This isn’t the time or place for this.” Steve walked right into Clint’s shoulder and shoved him out of the way to climb into the limo.

The windows were blacked out so he couldn’t see what was going on inside, but Clint wasn’t an idiot; he’d seen this kind of shit before. He sucked in three hits before passing his joint off to the cool Valet who loaded all their bags. How’s that for a tip? His suspenders felt tight on his shoulders so he tugged at them before letting them snap back against his chest. He tried to remember how it felt when Nat slid them off his shoulders last night, before she unbuttoned his dress shirt and let it fall to the bed. He let his chin tip up to look at the sky as Sam walked past him, ignoring him completely when he said, ‘time to roll man’. Nat had surprised him then, sliding the suspenders back over his naked skin. She let them pull against the barbells in his nipples and snapped them just right as they kissed. It was perfect. Clint tried to find some distraction in the clouds, to spot a german shepherd or a dinosaur, maybe a cupid’s bow or a sailboat, but there were only blobs.

He’d assumed Bucky had enjoyed a perfect night of his own; that he and Steve left the dance to fuck like bunnies... He’d assumed wrong.

“C’mon Siouxsie”, Tony hollered out the sunroof, “get your sassy suspendered ass in this limo before we leave you in the gutter with The Banshees!”

Climbing over Scott’s legs, he sat directly across from Steve and Bucky and leveled them both with ‘The Judgmental Stare’. Clint noticed that Sam, his excellent tag team partner, looked equally pissed and was also giving them his signature ‘Stare of Disappointment’. Nobody said jack shit; everyone happy to go along with the stupid plan to pretend Bucky wasn’t manically counting the llamas on his pants, loudly chomping on six fucking pieces of bubble gum, and obnoxiously popping giant pink bubbles every two seconds! Tony was looking out the window and not saying shit. Scott wasn’t saying shit because he didn’t realize that this was something he should say shit about. Steve certainly wasn’t saying shit, and that left The Hardy Boyz...himself included, who were dramatically staring, but still not saying shit.

Bucky flung himself across Steve’s lap so quickly that it made Clint and Scott jump. He landed face down with his ass right across Steve’s thighs and hollered, “Stevie, you’ve gotta count the ones on my ass. I can’t see them. There’s forty seven llamas on my pants, not counting the ones living on my ass, so you’ve gotta finish the tally. Add it up Steve.” Bucky flipped his head towards Clint with a wild look, “Ha! Clint! That’s funny! Get it? Because of your shirt! Add it up! Add it up!”

“Yeah, real fuckin’ funny Bucky.” He looked down at his vintage Violent Femmes shirt, that actually said ‘Add it up’ and it pissed him off. It made him mad because it _was_ ‘real fuckin’ funny’ and he wanted to laugh, but it was off. Everything was just off.

“C’mon Stevie, count!” Bucky wiggled his ass and popped another huge bubble, almost getting it stuck on the black leather seat.

Sam added his signature move, the ‘Disappointed Head Shake’, to the world famous ‘Stare of Disappointment’ when Steve started counting llamas, because Sam’s a wise dude and he fucking knew everything was off too.

“There are seven Mexican llamas on your ass Buck.” Steve laughed a little and poked at the one above his tailbone.

“How do you know they’re Mexican? They could be llamas on vacation. Llama tourists in roadside-sombrero-vendor sombreros. Jugar de lo sombreritos!” Bucky pushed himself back up and blew a bubble so it popped against Steve’s cheek. “Don’t assume people’s nationalities Stevie, or llama’s nationalities in this particular case, it’s not politically correct.”

“Wouldn’t wanna offend the llamas,” Tony deadpanned, still looking out the window.

“No, they might spit on you”, Bucky cackled before suddenly going very still. He stopped smacking his gum, he stopped bouncing his leg, he stopped rambling about llamas, he just stopped and stared blankly at Clint.

“Buck?” Steve lowered his palm onto Bucky’s thigh. The second his fingers made contact it was like a doctor smashed his knee with a stethoscope to check his reflexes.

He jammed his leg across the limo and kicked Clint hard in the shin.

“Fuck! God Dammit!” Clint bent down to rub his leg because that fucking hurt! “Why the hell did you kick me!?”

Bucky blatantly ignored that very reasonable question and leaned back like it never happened. He crossed one American Flag shoe across his llama covered knee and smirked. “So Clint. Did you fuck my sister last night?”

Well that got Tony’s attention, everyone’s attention really, but Tony was the one who yelled, “That was abrupt! Holy shit!”

Scott kept his eyes on Steve as he slid down the seat, definitely trying to get as far away from Clint and Bucky as humanly possible in the confined space of a limousine. It was a smart move, because he felt like Bucky sucker punched him in the gut and his adrenaline was surging.

“You for real with me right now Bucky?” Clint leaned across the limo but Steve put his arm across Bucky’s chest when he tried to do the same. And what did Bucky do? He blew another fucking bubble! Clint felt himself lose it. “You wanna snap another bubble at me and pretend like your face isn’t fucked up? You go right ahead kitten, because trying to distract me from that shitstorm, by gettin’ on me about Nat is total bullshit!”

“Uh, guys...” Tony leaned forward and waved his arms in the space between them. “No cock fighting in the limo boys. Do I have to buy you both silver cock rings? Jesus christ.”

Clint could see the tension in Bucky’s chest and how Steve’s forearm muscles were struggling to keep him restrained. A pink bubble started expanding and expanding and expanding until Steve sternly whispered, “C’mon man. Bucky... stop!”

He narrowed his eyes over the bubble at Clint, before he popped it, smiled and bounced back in the seat. Steve didn’t drop his arm.

“Aww, I was just kidding! Jesus Christ, you’re all so fucking gullible! I’m _totally_ happy you stuck your dick in my sister!”

“Oh man,” Sam covered his eyes with his palms and started rubbing.

Maybe Steve was in shock, or something, because Bucky was able to snake out from under his arm and lunge at Clint. Maybe nobody moved because every ounce of this whole mess was so out of character. Maybe Clint felt afraid of Bucky for the first time in his life because everything about this was so far off course. He froze because he had no idea who was coming across the limo at him, and no idea what he was planning on doing. Clint wanted to scream.

But all Bucky did was squeeze his llama covered ass into Scott’s vacated spot and loop his arm casually around Clint’s shoulders. He could feel Steve staring when Bucky turned his head to kiss Clint’s cheek, then he could feel Steve staring past him as Bucky quietly whispered, “you just treat her right. I know you will, but I have to say it. She’s my sister and you better not break _her_ heart.”

The limo was eerily quiet as Bucky looked at him, his face so close that Clint could feel those words hit him right in the chest. “Bucky…”

But there was only a chuckle as Bucky leaned back against Scott far enough to punch Clint in the shoulder. “You know I love you man.”

“Why do you people always lay on me in cars?!”, Scott yelled from somewhere under Bucky’s back.

Everyone was tossed forward as the limo ground to a halt against the sidewalk. When the door was flung open Clint realized he’d been holding his breath. His need to breath in the polluted New York city air made him dizzy. Everything was making him feel dizzy.

Clint let the rest of them pile out first, until just Sam was left.

When he tried to climb out to suck down the pollution Sam touched his shoulder and said, “man, what the hell is going on?”

Maybe there was something to Bucky’s plan; Clint didn’t want to deal with any of this shit either. He was here to eat a shit-load of food that Tony Stark was paying for, and to drink a shit-load of liquor that Tony Stark was providing, and dance in a real twenty-one plus club that Tony Stark was getting them into, and have a fucking great time with his best friend in some crazy apartment that belonged to Howard Stark. _That’s_ what the fuck he was _supposed_ to be doing! Not dealing with llama pants, or aggressive bubble gum, or Bucky jamming stakes into his fucking heart with a smile on his face. So Clint just crawled past Sam, fully ignoring the concerned look on his face and said, “I’ll deal with it later.”

“Oh, you’ll deal with it later”, Sam hollered after him, “that’s a real solid plan Barton. Good luck with that.”

Clint’s stomach hurt. It fucking hurt as he trailed after Tony to the elevator. It hurt when Sam leaned against the wall with his arms crossed. It hurt when Bucky pushed the button for every floor so the ride to the penthouse took forever. It even hurt when Scott said ‘Oh my god, this is gonna be so sweet! Clint! I’m so ready for this! Aren’t you?’, because it was supposed to be sweet, and it was supposed to be fun, and he wasn’t supposed to be watching elevator doors opening and closing twenty times while his best friend was being a total fucking asshole.

The apartment was insane. Yeah Clint had been to Skinner’s house, and Daisy’s house, and even Tony’s actual house, so he knew how these people lived. But maybe in his mind he thought a ‘work apartment’ would be at least a little more basic. He was stupid for even considering that the great Stark family would have anything less than overindulgent, wasteful bullshit. Five of Clint’s apartments could fit inside this loft! Maybe six! It looked like the loft in ‘Big’, with floor to ceiling windows and shiny wood floors, and a real grand piano instead of the toy one Tom Hanks jumped around on. He half expected to turn the corner and find the trampoline. He actually hoped there was a trampoline, or at least a hot tub, because he needed to let off some steam and relax. Jesus. He walked into the living area and the flatscreen was the size of a car and there was art, so much art, and weirdly shaped modern furniture in weird arrangements. Clint just dropped his bag at his feet, because wow, what the hell was he doing here?

Bucky blasted past everyone, with his fifty-four sombrero wearing llamas, booking in and out of each room like The Flash. Even Scott looked overwhelmed by his rate of speed.

“Tony! Which room do we get?” Bucky peeked his head out of a doorframe and grinned. Clint was trying _really hard_ to just roll with the ‘ignore everything’ plan, but he caught Steve and Sam exchanging worried looks. Well, at least he wasn’t alone in realizing there was a fucking issue.

Tony strolled down the hall with his rolling suitcase, pausing in front of Bucky like he was a wild animal sticking his head through the fence at the zoo. He flipped his hand towards several doors and casually said, “whichever one you want Zachary Quinto.” He patted Bucky on the head let his fingers rest there a second too long. His brown eyes looked worried, a micro expression of pain, guilt? It was just a second, but Clint saw it. It was there. But then he shoved Bucky’s head back and continued down the hall. Without turning back he yelled, “except the master bedroom. Obviously that’s mine, since I’m the Master.”

“Masterbater”, Scott yelled after him, but then looked instantly embarrassed.

Pushing open the double doors at the end of the hall, Tony smirked back at them. “Well yeah, that too.” In typical Stark fashion started pretending to relentlessly jerk himself off. “I do love spanking the monkey, choking the chicken, erupting ol’ faithful, busting a nut, charming the snake, having a conversation with the one-eyed trouser sna…”

“Tony!” Sam yelled.

He shrugged his shoulders like ‘what?’ then without stopping his hand hollered, “you’re no fun Sam! Maybe you’re the one who needs to go have a tug-of-war with your cyclops?”

Sam tried not to laugh and failed horribly. “Yeah, maybe you’re right man. I’m gonna go take care of that right now in one of these bedrooms. Stain the carpet, the walls, the sheets and anything else I can hit Tony, just ‘cause you made me listen to you say ‘charming the snake’.”

“That’s what OxiClean is for my friend! I’ve got maids on speed-dial just for semen clean-up.” Tony laughed and tossed his suitcase into his room. “But friends and countrymen, I will _not_ be shaking hands with Mr. Happy this evening, because tonight I’m on a quest to try new things, with a whole new gender. Hopefully someone else, that’s not female, will be tenderizing my meat.”

“You’re insane Tony.” Steve gave him a slightly disapproving nod, combined with that little smile as he dropped his bag into a leather chair against the wall.

“Yes. I am. Thank you. Oh, Scott! Iggy Pop! You straight boys get the couch. If you bring anybody home from the club you’ll have to duke it out, or flip a coin, or play rock-paper-scissors. Sorry! It’s a pull-out and it’s gigantic, so who knows, maybe you can have an orgy.”

Clint couldn’t believe that Tony was apologizing for making him sleep on a couch that was three times bigger than his bed. “I see how it is, giving the Captain and Cupcake preferential trea…”

“Don’t call me that!” Bucky was standing in the middle of the hall and he snapped his head to Clint.

Flabbergasted? Was that the right word for how Clint felt? He was so flabbergasted that he took a step backwards at the words. Don’t call him cupcake? He must have misheard or something so he gasped, “what?”  

Bucky ignored him completely and pointed to the second door on the right, “Steve, let’s claim this one. Its got a fire escape! We can sit on it!” Bucky ran out of sight and Clint looked right at Steve because what the fuck!? The reaction from Steve was almost as bad. He shook his head and shifted his eyes towards the back corner of the living room, letting his eyes linger in  the corner of the ceiling like he was staring at something that wasn’t really there. It creeped Clint out.

“I know it’s like two o’clock, but it’s time for the morning dance party bitches!” Bucky’s voice hollered from the other room and suddenly ‘Sweatpants’ by Childish Gambino blasted at full volume. He was Bucky’s new obsession.

Tony walked back into the main room and said, “stereo in every bedroom…”, with a big sarcastic smile. He almost sounded like he was apologizing.

Then Bucky appeared, snaking down the hall with a slow pop to his shoulders and a little rock to his head. The wicked smile on his face as he slithered right up to Steve was something else that Clint had never seen. He’d been with Bucky through so much shit, so much horrible shit, and he thought he’d seen every flavor of his best friend. But this? What the hell was this? Steve started breathing heavy when Bucky started isolating his chest and ribs while ticking his head and arms to the dark hip hop groove. The beats shifted down his limbs in aggressive waves and he was gone. He might have been dancing six inches in front of Steve but he wasn’t dancing _with_ Steve, or even _for_ Steve.

“Bucky…” Steve whispered and grabbed at Bucky’s waist.

Clint thought about a desperate sailor trying his damnedest to pull a boat into the dock in heavy seas. Bucky’s hips were undulating in dark waves and Steve’s hands were only holding on for the ride.

“Just dance with me Steve. C’mon,” Bucky whined as he grabbed Steve’s hands and yanked them tighter around his waist. He barely waited for Steve’s fingers to grab hold before Bucky closed his eyes, dropped his head back, and let his hair swing back and forth as he ground his hips forward against Steve’s.

Clint knew. He knew they all knew. This was so off. But he let his head start bouncing to the beat anyway, because he was just trying to hold onto the rope too; and sometimes you have to let out some slack to eventually pull the boat back to shore.

Scott had started dancing with a potted plant, maybe a palm, almost immediately because it was Scott. What else could he say about that? Tony had cracked a craft beer, of course it was a craft beer, and was trying to get Sam to dance with him. Sam was not having it.

Once Clint let go he caught Sam’s eye and nodded to the beat. He understood, of course he did, then nodded and gave in too. Tony was thrilled that Sam was sort of dancing with him but all Clint saw was another rope, letting out slack to hopefully not lose them completely. The music was so loud and he allowed the beat to move into his stomach before grabbing his suspenders as the chorus hit, moving the way he used to dance with Bucky and channeling all of his frustration.

Bucky was leaning so far backwards that he was almost upside down and he thought Steve was going to drop him. But he didn’t. If Clint hadn’t seen it with his own two eyes he never would have believed it. Steve gripped his fingers tightly around Bucky’s t-shirt and gave in to the sea. He stopped pulling on the ropes and pulled Bucky onto his thigh instead; navigating him somewhere else entirely. When the song started repeating ‘don’t be mad, cuz I’m doin’ me better that you doin’ you…”, Clint watched Steve stop trying to hold on for dear life and go wherever Bucky was. Neither of them were in the room anymore when Steve dropped his stance and followed Bucky’s chaotic motion. Steve seemed just as angry, just as fucked up and just as desperate as he let Bucky lead. But then Steve wrapped his arms around Bucky, somehow slowing his motions and pulling him back to vertical. Bucky’s body fell into Steve’s rhythm and the mania was almost dripping out the tips of his hair. Clint couldn’t believe it. Steve had him. Somehow he had him.

Clint closed his eyes and just felt the music, because he couldn’t watch it anymore. The song changed but nobody stopped dancing. Maybe they all needed it. Maybe they all needed to go somewhere else right now. Clint heard Tony laugh, and Sam say ‘hands off the merchandise’ before the beat hit.

The lyrics kept repeating ‘music is a drug’ over and over, and Clint let it flow into him like it was the cure. They could deal with it Monday. They would all just deal with it on Monday.

‘Music is the drug’

Clint would remember not to call Bucky ‘Cupcake’, even though he’d been calling him cupcake since ninth grade! He didn’t want to think about this right now.

‘Music is the drug’

Fuck! He reached up and undid the braid Nat had put in his hair and let the purple tips swing down into his eyes. The purple tips his cupcake had put there. He couldn’t think about this right now.

‘Music is the drug’

It all started on Bucky’s fourteenth birthday when the idiot wanted cupcakes. Phil and Nat picked out two dozen, which was way too many cupcakes for six people! C’mon he didn’t want to think about this right now.

‘Music is the drug’

He moved his feet in increasingly difficult patterns, scuffing the pristine wood floors. Skinner, Daisy, Nat and Phil ate one cupcake like normal people. But Clint and Bucky, because they’re idiots, ate so many that Bucky puked multi-colored vomit all over the living room carpet. He sprayed it onto Clint’s shoes and all over his hands when he tried to shove a garbage can underneath the puke waterfall. Fuck!

‘Music is the drug’

He tore the suspenders off and let them swing against his thighs. It started off as a joke when he started calling Bucky ‘Cupcake’, Clint giving him a hard time, but it changed into something else pretty quickly. Why couldn’t he fucking stop thinking about this!?

‘Music is a drug’

The fuck it is! Whatever drug Music was claiming to be wasn’t potent enough to stop Clint from opening his eyes and watching his Bucky disappearing into himself as he rolled his body against Steve’s. That Bucky right there...Clint turned and walked down the hall...that wasn’t his Cupcake.

He was almost to the master bedroom, where he planned to lay the fuck down on Tony Stark’s bed and take a nap, when Bucky ran up behind him and leapt full speed onto his back. It was a shock, but Clint managed not to fall over, even though the idiot was heavy.

“Don’t leave Clint. Come on, spin me”, Bucky laughed in his ear and why the hell not? He did it, because he couldn’t handle anything else. Clint wasn’t in charge of this show any more, so he just spun, bouncing against the door frames and knocking over a plant, until they were both laughing so hard that he thought he might puke.

They could deal with it on Monday. They could deal with everything on Monday. For now, Clint just ran around in circles, trying not to vomit multicolored cupcakes, until they were both dizzy from the spinning.

*****

 

“What do you mean I have to wear a tank top?” Steve was staring at at least twenty-five ridiculous tank tops spread out all over Tony’s giant bed and he was confused. Capital ‘C’ Confused. There were funny ones, band ones, and lots of gay ones. Mostly gay ones. Huh, now that he really looked at them the funny ones were about being gay, and the band ones were Adam Lambert, Elton John, George Michael and Queen. Bucky looked positively gleeful.

Tony was pointing at the rainbow selection like he meant business. “Club wear. Club rules. Special request by your tiny dancer.” He poked Bucky in the ribs before spreading his arms wide. “Tank top du jour.”

“I didn’t think you’d actually do it!” Bucky started grabbing tank tops and holding them up to Steve and the rest of the captive audience. “Oh my god Steve, this one says ‘I’m so gay I shit rainbows’! That’s me! That’s me!” Bucky cracked up as he shook the giant rainbow in Steve’s face. He looked happy in the center of this room, filled with friends and gay slogans, so Steve let his worry fade into the lingering fog.

“I always keep my promises Colton Haynes.” Tony winked and threw a huge grin towards Bucky before turning his limited attention span to Steve. “How about this one Cap?” Tony held up a pink one with a cat on it, and Steve had to squint his eyes to read it.

“Does that say ‘vagitarian’?”

Tony flipped it around to read it himself and cracked up. “Oh, whoopsie”, Tony launched it at Clint, who pointedly made no attempt to catch it. “That one’s for Courtney Love.”

“Actually, I think Clint should wear this one”, Bucky was holding one against his chest that had giant letters hovering over a huge arrow pointing right at his dick. “It says ‘Boys, Free Protein Shakes’.” Bucky licked his lips and winked at Clint. “It’s perfect for you.”

“Fuck you Bucky.” Clint said it calmly, but there was no missing the hurt underneath. Steve didn’t understand why Bucky was being such a dick to his best friend. He had no idea where it was coming from, and it was obvious from the way Clint was looking at Bucky, his lip curling up into a sneer as he crossed his arms across his suspenders, that he was sick of it.

“Bucky.” Steve grabbed his waist and tried to pull him back. Not physically, but the way he did when they were dancing. Bucky threw the shirt at Scott, who also failed to catch it, and the stereo suddenly sounded twice as loud. Bucky said it was Azealia Banks, and Steve could not believe what he was hearing. Azealia Banks said ‘cunt’ a lot.

“You’re right,” Bucky sighed and the persona dropped off him, like Steve had somehow chased it off their island and back into the fog of the real world. If only he could figure out how to keep it off their shores for good.

Bucky moved around the bed towards Clint, and Steve was completely distracted by how many times this song said ‘cunt’, and ‘bitch’, and ‘fuck’ and other things he could not repeat, even in the relative safety of his own mind. How could he pay attention to his boyfriend when this girl kept saying ‘cunt’!

It didn’t seem to affect Bucky though. He put both hands on Clint’s suspenders and calmly said, “I’m being a total fucker. I’m sorry man. I don’t know what the fuck’s wrong with me.”

Clint scoffed, “yeah, I don’t know what the fuck’s wrong with you either, but that’s something I’m starting to get used to.”

“Clint...” Bucky pulled him forward by the black elastic until he was close enough to whisper something into his ear that Steve didn’t quite catch. Then Bucky stepped back and signed something, which immediately lowered all of  Clint’s defences. His rigid posture shifted and he pulled Bucky into a tight hug. The moment would have been more touching if someone wasn’t repeating ‘I’m gonna ruin you cunt’ over and over.

“Oh my god, somebody call Oprah. Do you guys need some tissues? A new car? Seriously Helen Keller, stop it. You’re both gross!” Tony jumped up on the bed and the cornucopia of gay shirts bounced up around him. “Hey Frank N Furter, maybe you should wear this one!?” He held it up for all to see. “It says ‘Bitch Mode-check ‘on’ or ‘off’.”

Sam snorted and dramatically mimed checking a box while he mouthed ‘on’.  

Bucky threw himself backwards onto the pile of shirts and smiled. “Yeah, I deserved that. I’ll own my inner bitch, but cross my heart and hope to die, it’s totally switched off.”

On cue the song finally ended. That was _not_ going on a mixtape anytime soon. As the first notes of ‘Cinema’ by Skrillex filled the room, god so much better,  Bucky stretched his arm out and yanked a tank out from under Tony’s feet. Dropping the grey shirt across his face he laughed, “I wanna wear this one!”

Sam read the bright red letters aloud and his eyes got huge when it registered. “Power Bottoms for Jesus”. His eyes got huge. “Power bottoms for Jesus! Man, I’m a forward thinking and extremely liberal dude, as my presence at this crazy shindig proves, but that shit right there is sacrilegious. It has a giant white cross on it!”

A very impressive image of Bucky riding his cock this morning helpfully popped into Steve’s head, and well, his first experience with Bucky as a power bottom _had_ been a religious experience...before he knew it he was laughing. Out loud.

Bucky pulled the shirt down and aimed his beautiful blue eyes at him, biting his lip. “Stevie likes it.”

Okay, now he was embarrassed. And he was still laughing. And he knew he was turning red. And he was totally getting hard in his jeans.

Sam looked amused and deadpanned, “well if _Stevie_ likes it…”

“We have a winner! Ding Ding Ding!” Tony tried to step over Bucky’s head but totally landed on his hair instead.

“Mother fucker!”

“Oh, shut up Rapunzel, get a haircut.” He snatched a shirt from under Bucky’s back. “Here, this one’s fucking perfect!”

It was really unbelievable that he let Tony Stark, and Bucky by default, dress him in a black tank top that said ‘Gay As Fuck’ in giant neon green letters. First of all, it was _way_ too tight, which he made the mistake of saying to Bucky. That resulted in a five minute lecture where Steve was informed, passionately, that ‘this is how gay men wear tank tops, this is how gay men have _always_ worn tank tops, jesus Steve, get with the picture’. Secondly it said ‘Gay as Fuck’ in letters that were at least five inches tall. He was looking at his outfit in the full length mirror; dark jeans, the ‘red belt of sex’, as Bucky was now calling it, and his black vans. He let Bucky do his hair and it was really...tall. He laughed at his reflection because even though he felt ridiculous he felt good. Great even. He was excited to be ‘Gay as Fuck’ with his boyfriend in a place where it was okay. He leaned forward and adjusted a piece of hair that was sticking up a little too high, when he heard the bathroom door finally open.

Wow.

There was no doubt that Steve was going to make Bucky another mixtape about this weekend. He knew the second he saw Bucky in the doorway that Thirty Seconds to Mars ‘Kings and Queens’ was going in this spot; the very important ‘song six’ on side one. The sixth song signals the end of side one’s journey and prepares you for the mystery that awaits when you flip the tape. Yeah, those assholes had called him a ‘Queen’, but Steve didn’t care. Bucky made him feel like Royalty no matter what the title.

Bucky strutted towards him in his ‘Power Bottoms for Jesus’ shirt and it made Steve smile so wide that his cheeks hurt. The fabric stretched gorgeously against his muscles, which made him realize that Bucky was one-hundred percent accurate in his assertion. The correct way for a gay man to wear a tank top _was_ ‘tight as fuck’. Freshly washed brown hair curled against his cheekbones so gorgeously that Steve barely noticed the redness that remained. Bucky had squeezed his long legs into black skinny jeans, _very_ skinny jeans, and they were showing off _everything_.

The song played in his head, he couldn’t help it, and when Bucky smiled Steve’s favorite toothy grin his crown materialized on top of his head. It was the golden crown from that first day on the roof, with its purple and pink jewels bouncing and refracting light directly into Steve’s soul. Somehow, when he walked forward and let their fingertips touch, he felt a crown forming atop his own head. It wasn’t the cruel Homecoming monstrosity or the deceptive costume of a golden son, it was something solid and pure. He could see the colors from his new crown reflecting in the golden mirror of Bucky, and Steve was red and blue.

“I’m going to kiss you Bucky. I’m going to kiss you because…”

He was going to say ‘because you’re my king’, but even Steve knew when to reign it in. Instead, he simply pulled Bucky towards him and ran his tongue along his plump bottom lip, sucking it into his mouth before he felt Bucky’s tongue reciprocate.

Red and Blue and Pink and Purple circles were bouncing off the walls all around them, just like the tiny disco ball in Bucky’s bedroom bounced the moonlight on their very first night together. Steve laughed against Bucky’s mouth. He was about to go to a _real_ club. He was about to go to a real _gay_ club. He was about to go to the hottest gay dance club in New York City on a Saturday night! And Steve was going there with his seventeen-year-old boyfriend who he loved with all his heart. Steve let his fingers slip under the red leather cuff snapped around Bucky’s bicep and thought about the present hidden in his backpack. God, side two was gonna be unbelievable!

“Okay Tank Top Gang! Gay adventure awaits! Let’s go!” Tony threw open their bedroom door and Clint, Sam and Scott were all standing behind him peeking over his shoulder. He took a deep breath and gave Bucky one more kiss on his wine stained lips.

It was time to be ‘Gay as Fuck’.

 

'Bacchus' by Caravaggio, oil on canvas, c.1595  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my god you guys! I get so damn excited when I get all your comments and kudos! Like SOOOO EXCITED! So thank you!!!! I love hearing from you and listening to your song suggestions and your thoughts on our boys. 
> 
> Trivia Time: Comment your answers and I will send you virtual treats and mad respect!  
> 1\. Bucky mentions 'monkeys stealing beer' on his Incubus island. Does anyone have any idea what I'm talking about? If not google 'drunk monkeys'. You won't regret it.  
> 2\. In the sentence "...mesmerizing influx of Bucky's air contaminating Steve's lungs with poppies", what two things am I referencing? Hint, they go together.  
> 3\. When Bucky mentions 'Big Brother' when he's talking about Trump tower, what book and author is he referencing? Bonus goodies if you've read it.  
> Please visit me on  
> [Instagram](https://www.instagram.com/jessielucidart/)  
> [Tumblr](http://lucidnancyboy.tumblr.com)  
> [YouTube](https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCjADIMzQjvmnAs-nGoSG0JQ)
> 
> to see the rest of my Stucky art! Hugs and kisses!


	14. Life in the Eye

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi gorgeous people! The playlist to go along with this chapter is up on my YouTube:
> 
>   [YouTube](https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCjADIMzQjvmnAs-nGoSG0JQ)
> 
> It would be very helpful to watch the opening scene of 'Blade' before you read this chapter. Google 'Blade: Bloodbath Rave' to get inside Bucky's head in this chapter. lol.

                                                                 

 

“Oh my god, Bucky! I just saw the Village People! All of them!”

Tony was half yelling, half whining over the best EDM mix Bucky had ever heard in his entire life and he needed Stark to shut the fuck up! He needed him to dance better. He needed him to understand that he wasn’t _allowed_ to yell over the best mother fucking trap mix Bucky had ever heard in his _entire mother fucking life_! But he kept yelling. Of course he did.

“The one with the moustache was looking right at me! I mean, I guess they _all_ have moustaches... don’t they? Wait...” Tony tipped his head and Bucky could see him taking moustache inventory in his mind. “Except the Native American. See how PC I was right there? I didn’t see the Chief or his smooth upper lip. Maybe he’s at Standing Rock. Oh damn, that was _not_ PC. I take that back completely. Pretend I never said that. Why am I such a dick? I’m totally against the pipeline! Big oil is nothing but a bunch of small minded, selfish pricks desperate to stop innovation! Me and my saucy black cat at MIT are working on this clean ener…”

“Tony! What the fuck are you rambling about!?”, Bucky interrupted, because Jesus H. Christ!   “You’re supposed to be _dancing_ with me!”

“I _am_ dancing with you! This is your body right in front of me, and this is your unusually firm, narrow, and definitively masculine waist that I’m touching and this is the middle of a dance floor! So two plus two equals dancing.” Tony rolled his stupid big brown eyes right in Bucky’s face and shimmied his shoulders like a cheesy game show host.

“This is not dancing.”

“C’mon Dancing Queen, I _know_ you can sing every single lyric and nail the cheerleader moves of the ‘YMCA’!”

Tony let go of his waist, stepped back against the people who were _actually_ dancing, and started doing the motions. When he got to the ‘A’ and screamed, “this is the alphabet of the gays, don’t act like you don’t know your own language”, Bucky knew he was gonna strangle him. He was gonna wrap his hands around that little neck and strangle him so Tony Stark’s last act on planet Earth would be forming the letter ‘C’ with his body. Maybe he’d get rigamortis in that position and they’d have to build him a special casket? But Bucky just stood there, imagining caskets in the shapes of each letter, while Tony did the mother fucking Y, M, C, and A over and over and over. He froze on the ‘M’ and hollered, “oh, just to be clear Donna Summers, I’m _talking_ , not _rambling,_ asshole. I’m _talking_ about the giant moustache! Tell me you know the ‘YMCA’!”

Bucky could feel his mouth dropping open and the only thing he could do was stare. What else do you do when a tipsy gazillionaire scoffs at you in the shape of the letter ‘M’?

“I used to swim at the YMCA.”

“Oh fuck off Andy Gibb! You _absolutely_ know the beefcake with the leather and the caveman chest hair! Don’t lie! I bet you jerk off to ‘Macho Man’ every night!”

Running his hands down the sides of his face Bucky tried to convey that Tony needed to shut the fuck up and dance. Lady Gaga needed to fly down in her magic egg and tell the little shit to ‘just dance’, but he just...kept...vomiting...words.

“Chaka Khan! I’m not ready for an epic moustache! I don’t even know if I’m ready for the neatly trimmed construction worker moustache!”

This was hopeless. He was over it. Tony was acting like a five-year-old, instead of his usual pre-teen eleven, and Bucky had a perfectly mature eighteen-year-old studmuffin standing on the sidelines waiting for him. _Steve_ would appreciate the killer music, and _Steve_ would show his appreciation by running his eighteen-year-old hands all over Bucky’s seventeen-year-old ass!

Stepping right up to Tony, Bucky gave him an out. “Do you wanna go spectate with Steve and Sam on the balcony? Do you need to go sit on the ‘overwhelmed by all the gay’ bench with Scott and get wasted? Do you wanna go buy Clint some more overly priced beer? He likes it when you pay for stuff. Because you _can_ do that Tony. Nobody’s gonna give a shit. It’s cool.”

“No. Nope. I’m down for this. I’m here and my plan is brilliant. I just got a little scared by the abundance of body hair, that’s all. It was very bushy. But I’m down! I’m just _not_ down for Magnum P.I.”

Tony barely put his hands back around Bucky’s waist, like a chicken shit, and started to dance. Sort of. He still sucked, but it was good enough for Bucky to stop imagining strangulation and really take everything in, because damn...

Bucky had only seen shit like this in movies, and even then he didn’t think clubs could be this cool in real life! This insanity, this miracle of gayness and hedonism, reminded him of the Bloodbath Rave at the beginning of ‘Blade’. If Bucky had to count how many time he made Clint watch that movie sophomore year, it would add up to four-zillion and three, but they always replayed the Bloodbath Rave a gazillion-megatrillion times so they could dance. Hundreds of sexy vampires tearing shit up? Hell yeah! Strobe lights, fog, and a badass DJ with spotlights stuck to the sides of his head? Fuck yeah! Sick EDM, hot hot hot dancing, and top-secret-vampire-only-admittance through a meat locker? Damn straight! This nightclub was pretty damn close, minus the meat hooks, except instead of hundreds of vampires everyone was, as Steve’s shirt helpfully pointed out, ‘gay as fuck!’

Yeah, the vampires were being dicks to that dude in the red jacket which was so not cool, but that wasn’t Bucky’s focus here. Tony somehow managed to pull him around with his limp noodle hands towards the giant wall of mirrors and a girl dancing a few feet behind him instantly got Bucky’s attention. She had the cutest afro puffs and itty bitty black denim shorts with a cropped military jacket. Perfect movie casting dropped right in his lap; handling the role of the sexy vampire with the saucy blonde pigtails and the hot as fuck white bra would be Aftodite...oh shit, sometimes he was a clever clever bastard. Bucky laughed dropped his arms over Tony’s shoulders so he could really drink her in. She was perfect because the cuteness of her Willow Smith poofy puffs did nothing to diminish her epic badassness. And good god, the way she was moving her body against a Ruby Rose look alike made it damn clear that she’d wear the title of ‘Badass Bitch’ with pride. Afrodite would nail the thug with a devastating roundhouse kick to the face then simply adjust her afro puffs in the side mirror of her motorcycle like it was nothing. Natasha could be her understudy; she looked fucking amazing with red pigtails!

When DJ Vampire signaled the bloodbath, Bucky always peer-pressured Clint into jumping on the bed and raging along with the blood thirsty creatures of the night. During winter break, Bucky got a little too ambitious in his portrayal of Stephen Dorff and fell backwards off Clint’s bed. Not only did he spill his Monster all over Clint’s Gibson Les Paul on the way down, he also slammed the back of his skull against the corner of the TV stand. Blood started running down the back of his neck and Clint jokingly insisted he’d done it on purpose to be ‘method’.

Bucky slid his hands around Tony’s back to pull him a little closer, ignoring his subpar dancing and the fact that the raving vampires were totally gonna eat the douche in the red jacket for a midnight snack. Instead, Bucky thought about Clint dragging his fingertips through the dripping blood. That was the moment it all changed for Bucky... and it still pissed him off.

After checking to make sure his brains weren’t oozing out, Clint unpinned his favorite ‘Misfits’ button from the collar of his leather jacket and pushed the point deep into the skin of his thumb. Bucky was shocked, and couldn’t move, and had no fucking clue what the hell was happening. Clint’s skin dipped inward from the pressure and Bucky was positive it was too dull, but suddenly it popped into his flesh and bright red blood rose to the surface around the metal. Poor Tony looked so out of his element when Bucky interlaced their hands and squeezed their fingers together, but the only thing on Bucky’s mind was the way Clint’s bleeding thumb felt when he pressed it against the cut.

When a person puts their face six inches in front of yours, looks deep into your eyes with a sly smile, then says ‘blood brothers’, it seems pretty logical to think they might be into you...right? But no... _Bucky_ misread the vibe, _Bucky_ didn’t understand platonic fun, _Bucky_ was too emotional, _Bucky_ ruined everything...yeah right! Such fucking bullshit! Oh, and the memory wouldn’t be complete without acknowledging his ongoing patheticness: after that fateful day, every time they watched ‘Blade’, Bucky always subconsciously rubbed the goddamn scar under his hair. But the real clincher, the cherry on top, the coup de gras, was every time they jumped on the bed, imagining blood raining down, Bucky thought about falling on purpose.

Somehow, Tony’s index finger was over the scar and Bucky was squeezing it in place. He could feel the phantom pain and it made him so mad! Still! So fucking mad. The DJ was pulling up the tempo and Bucky suddenly realized he had Tony pushed against the mirrors. Bucky caught his reflection over Tony’s shoulder and tried to let it go. He had Steve, and Steve was something special, so it didn’t matter anymore. Steve was waiting to dance with him and tonight was gonna be a good night! He watched himself smile and it was a much better look. Sing it Will.i.am!

“Hey Tony”, Bucky snickered and stepped up against him, “tonight’s the night, let’s live it up. I got _your_ money, let’s spend it up! Go on and smash it, like oh my…”

“...god!” Tony joined in with a huge grin, “Jump off that sofa. Let’s get, get off!”

The laughter felt good and the fog machine was working overtime, the strobe lights were reaching seizure level and his hands migrated to either side of Tony’s head. Blood pouring from the sprinklers when the drop hit would be sexy as fuck, in a really disturbing way, but this wasn’t the right crowd for a bloodbath. Bucky let his body sync with the music and his hands wandered, because he didn’t want a bloodbath either; he wanted something else...something so much better. Pressing his hair against Stark’s cheek, Bucky let their chests rub together and felt his silver belt buckle catch on the top of Tony’s jeans when he rolled against him. But it wasn’t Tony that he was touching, it wasn’t TJ, and it wasn’t Clint...when the DJ yelled ‘bloodbath’ there was only Steve and rainbow colored Kool-Aid bursting from the sprinklers drenching everyone instead.

But this wasn’t Steve...oh holy fuck, _this was not_ Steve! His mouth was open and he was breathing heavy and he was pretty fucking sure he was about to sink his vampire fangs deep into Tony Stark’s neck! Fuck...Bucky jumped back and threw up his hands in the universal signal for ‘my bad’, because sure enough, Tony looked like...well he looked like Bucky almost bit his neck. His eyes were as big as two giant ostrich eggs. What? What the fuck was going on in his brain right now!? That was such a stupid analogy! What the fuck was Bucky’s deal with ostriches? Fuck!

“Shit Tony, man I’m sorry. I got lost in the music and I was thinking about ‘Blade’ and I’m so fucking…”

“You made my dick hard.”

Oh, this freak out was real, and Bucky was a fucking asshole. “I’m sorry. I’m so...”

“I mean, you probably shouldn’t lick me or whatever kinky shit you were about to do”, Tony interrupted, “but it’s surprisingly cool. Cool Hand Luke, LL Cool J, Cool Runnings, cool beans... I oddly feel more confident, like my dick rose to the occasion to confirm I’m in the right place.”

“Yeah?”

“Yes absolutely. Now do your job Gloria Gaynor!”

Tony moved closer and Bucky though oh-fucking-kay, time to clock in. Bucky turned so Tony could slide up behind him, and when he felt somewhat confident fingers grabbing his hips he had hope...hope that was dashed immediately when the awkward ‘dancing’ made a comeback. Even with Bucky’s self-declared awesomeness, he could not save this situation.

Blade was crashing the party, fucking up the vibe with his sunglasses and his flat top and his shockingly white teeth. Bucky always thought that was some bullshit, minus the good deed of saving the douchey guy in the red jacket, but the rest was bullshit. What’s wrong with super hot vampires trying to have a good time? Wesley Snipes was such a Debbie Downer! Bucky was just trying to bathe in the rainbow Kool-aide and have a great fucking time, as directed by The Black Eyed Peas, but stupid Tony, who from this moment forward would be known as Buzzkill Blade, was shutting off the main water supply because he didn’t appreciate EDM, was all talk about picking up a guy, and was a rambling, nervous, left-footed dumbass!

“Bucky, this is _not_ like Glee, you’re um, really dancing with me and I’m totally holding onto your hips and it’s well, its very hot. My dick is still hard but now it’s really close to your butt. You’re the cowboy by the way. You know, Village People. I think you’d look great with a black cowboy hat and a bolo tie and I bet Steve would like you in some assless chaps. Maybe I’ll get you a pair for your birthday. Black leather right? Oh, and Steve’s the cop. Bucky, are you even listening to me!?” Tony’s hands patted at his hips in a desperate attempt to make Bucky give a shit. “Look at all these guys. Bucky do you see all these…”

His patience was gone, draining onto the dance floor and diluting his perfect rainbow Kool-aid. Bucky was gonna stake him. He raised his fist and channeled his best Buffy the Vampire Slayer...

...wait...wrong…

Tony was _Blade_ the closeted vampire and _Bucky_ was the hype, out-and-proud vampire! It took all his self-control to lower his staking hand as he turned to face off with Buzzkill Blade. Bucky pretended he was still ‘dancing’ and curled his thumb over Tony’s Adam’s Apple, just to...you know...to see how it felt. And maybe Bucky growled inside his head...maybe.

Guess who’d make a kickass vampire? Bucky would, that’s who! A dashing creature of the night like Spike; strutting around Billy Idol style in his leather trench coat, mesmerizing victims with his bright blue eyes and falling totally and completely in love with blonde hottie named Buffy. She might think she wants Angel, but deep down she’s powerless to resist Spike’s Old World British accent and soulful vampire charm. The best image of Vampire Bucky seducing Slayer Steve popped into his head and he immediately added ‘Epic Buffy/Angel marathon’ to his ‘Steve & Bucky Bucket List’. Maybe they could make a game out of it? A juicy blow job every time Spike said ‘bloody hell’? He cracked up because that would be a fuckload of blow jobs! Like a sore jaw, raw lips, bruised knees amount of blow jobs, which Bucky wouldn’t mind one bit. Steve wouldn’t mind either. In fact, he seemed to be growing fonder of Bucky’s dick in his mouth more and more with each passing day. Fuck yeah, Bucky could get down with dick sucking with a side of blood sucking, not the murder part, but taking a little taste of Steve...especially if Bucky got to wear that much black leather and say ‘bloody hell’ all the time...yes please.

The DJ started mixing in Marshmello and Bucky tried really hard to pay attention to Tony, but he was sooo distracted. Maybe Tony was onto something with the assless chaps idea?

The scene unfolds: A hot British vampire conceals himself in the shadows, his black leather assless chaps and thick moustache providing camouflage in the foggy Brooklyn streets. Bucky cracked up and ran his thumb down Tony’s artery. Scratch the moustache, it would look stupid with the fangs, but that was fucking hilarious! He pushed a little on the pulse point and started pulling Tony harder against his chest. He’d keep the cowboy hat, of course, because he’d look hot as hell in it _and_ he could wear it when he rode Steve’s cock cowboy style. Ha! Now he was laughing so hard that he was almost crying. Jack Swift would be so proud! Bucky let both hands press into the sides of Stark’s neck because he was _still_ panicking, and _still_ yelling about nothing, and _still_ not dancing and it was only a matter of time...if Buzzkill Blade didn’t get with the program, _now_ , Bucky the Bloody Cowboy was gonna hogtie him _and_ bite his neck, because fucking come on!

“Tony! Seriously, shut the fuck up. Do you want this to work or not?”

Tony had stopped even his horrible attempts at dancing and was just doing some off-tempo thrusting every so often.

“Yes! I want it to work! I planned this whole weekend so it would work! And I _always_ make everything work! It’s what I do! But I should have consumed more cocktails first! Many more cocktails. A couple martinis with blood orange crisp garnish, and in honor of you and Steve, a classic Captain and Coke. You’re the Coke; bubbly and fizzy, and I know for a fact that Captain Steve is ‘tasting the feeling’.

Tony snorted, and Bucky tried not to laugh, because despite being the most annoying human being on Earth, that Coke joke was funny. Tony kept right on rolling. “Maybe a few shots of Jameson, because that guy right there is doing very obscene things to that other guy right there in the middle of this dance floor, and I really should have drank…”

Bucky tuned him out. Really should have drank what? Ketamine Cocktails? A Jaeger Bomb with a chaser of Bath Salts? Perhaps a shot of Tequila with a side of Acid? Bucky really wanted to say something, but he was the one that drank it, and it wasn’t Monday, and he was in this fucking awesome club, so he shoved it down and yelled at Stark about his pathetic gay seduction skills instead.

“Tony, you aren’t even leading me! At all! I’ve seen you dance and you don’t suck this fucking bad!” Bucky stepped away from whatever the hell Tony Stark was trying to do to his crotch and stood there in protest. This song was incredible, and he wished he was dancing with Steve, but he was stuck on the end of Tony Stark’s subpar fishing pole acting like bait. No matter how plump and juicy the worm is, if the man with the pole can’t reel in the fish, the worm is just wasting his fucking time! Poking his finger right in the middle of Tony’s chest he yelled, “I know I’m wearing this amazing ‘Power Bottoms for Jesus’ shirt, but even with my preferences emblazoned across my chest this isn’t even close to believable! If you wanna pick up a guy, you have to look like you fucking belong here! Look around you Tony! There’s like seven hundred gay people and it’s my fucking nirvana! Do you see that DJ!? That’s Flosstradamus from Chicago and you’re not appreciating the magic he’s working in any way, shape, or form! You just completely ignored the drop! You don’t ignore a trap drop! It’s a crime!”

Bucky could feel himself gesturing wildly, but he was powerless to stop himself. ‘Prison Riot’ was playing and Lil Jon was yelling ‘put your middle fingers up if you don’t give a fuck’, and Bucky was so on board with that!

“Did you _see_ the bartenders!? They aren’t wearing shirts! They’re throwing bottles around like Tom Cruise in ‘Cocktail’ and lighting shit on fire! They all look like Steve, but their chests are even bigger! And those go-go dancers!?” Bucky flung his angry jazz hands towards to the boys on either side of Flosstradamus, because the backwards baseball hat, tiny shorts, seventies style tube socks with red stripes combo was smokin’! He was gonna wear that for Steve. Hell yes he was! But right now he had to yell at Tony Stark some more! “I have no words for those go go dancers except yes, yes, yes, yes and more yes....so _thank you_ for bringing me here. Thank you! I swear to god I _want_ to help you hook up, but it’s not gonna happen if you look so goddamn freaked out! Just grab me!”

“But Steve…”

“Oh my God! Oh...my...fucking...god! We fucking talked about this! He’s fine. It’s fine. Everything’s fine! You two couldn’t handle this mission because you’re a quivering mess around Steve’s muscles, and they’re on full display in that tank top. I also need to thank you for that; good fucking job. But anyway, you dancing with Steve would look stupid; like a chihuahua humping a golden retriever, so you’re stuck with me!”

Bucky shoved Tony around and pointed up at Steve. Everyone was chillin’ at the curved bar that ran along the edge of the balcony and Steve looked amused as hell. Sam was trying and failing to stop himself from laughing by shoving a hand across his mouth and Clint was facepalming repeatedly. Yeah, they were a goddamn sitcom; here for your amusement. Steve slugged Sam in the shoulder then simply raised his beer, giving Tony the weirdest thumbs up Bucky had ever seen. Sam completely lost it and fell off his barstool and Clint actually collapsed onto the bar. Yeah, at least someone thought this shit was funny. Bucky gestured up at the peanut gallery and hollered, “look! Does my boyfriend look concerned?”

“Huh. Weirdly no.”

“That’s right! He doesn’t! Now Tony,” Bucky grabbed his shoulders and willed him to stop standing there like a cowering puppy, “you need to…”

Then it hit him.

He was a fucking idiot.

So dumb.

#dumb

He was gonna laugh about this one for years... _years_...a grand story from his youth that Grandpa Steve and Grandpa Bucky would tell to annoy the hell out of the grandchildren, recounting each hilarious detail at every single holiday dinner until the day they died. ‘Listen children, long ago Grandpa Bucky’s gaydar malfunctioned and everyone had a jolly good laugh at Tony Stark’s expense’. There was nothing to do but laugh and laugh and laugh...before he finally felt bad and put gentle hands on Tony’s shoulders, because duh. Bucky was a clueless idiot. Tony was a clueless idiot. Steve was a clueless idiot. Sam was a clueless idiot. Clint probably figured it out days ago but thought it would be funnier to watch this debacle unfold. Every single one of them deserved a gold star for being top notch idiots.

“Oh honey.” Bucky reached up and patted Tony’s cheek. “Change of plans. You’re not ready for what you think you’re ready for, not even a little bit. Honestly, maybe not ever. For christ’s sake, I need to put my awesome shirt on _you_! How are we both such idiots? C’mere, I’m taking over.”

Bucky hadn’t done this in awhile, only once really, and he wasn’t thinking about that political scandal right now. Tony looked a little less freaked out and a little more turned on, so Bucky went ahead and moved behind him. Letting his hands reach under the bottom of Tony’s jacket Bucky grabbed his hipbones and tugged him backwards. The height difference meant Tony fit easily against his chest and the way he leaned back against Bucky when the music started building proved Bucky’s gaydar was back online.

“I know you can dance Tony”, Bucky whispered into his ear, “so dance with me.”

It took about ten seconds for Tony to mutter ‘oh fuck’ after Bucky showed him what dancing was supposed to feel like, and about thirty seconds before he let Bucky take full control. It took forty-five seconds for eyes all around them to notice; watching as Bucky looped his index fingers into the front pockets of Tony’s jeans and perfectly synced them with the beat. The mix was shifting to dubstep and when the drop hit, because Bucky never misses a goddamn drop, he yanked Tony right up against him and rocked their bodies together in a slow pulse. This wasn’t the first time people had watched Bucky, lusted after him, but this was a _lot_ of eyes and none of them seemed afraid to look. At sixty seconds he turned his own eyes towards Steve, asking permission, and his boyfriend’s eyes were the most lust filled of them all.

Bucky smiled against Tony’s face because this was all so damn unexpected. Last week Tony Stark wouldn’t even loan him a fucking t-shirt and now his head was falling back against Bucky’s shoulder; against a tank top that Stark _bought_ for him! Bucky pulled back the lapels on Tony’s jacket, advertising the merchandise better and whispered, “do you like how this feels?”

“Umm”, he let out a quick laugh, “I can’t really feel my hands, or my face, so now I know what The Weeknd was talking about, but I _can_ feel your dick on my ass. Are you meaning to rub your dick all over my ass because you’re doing a bang up job…”

“Stark.” Bucky pressed even harder against him, because why the fuck not? “I asked if you liked it.”

“Yeah, I fucking like it!”

“Good, because we’re drawing lots of attention.”

More fog seemed to fill up the spaces around them and the go-go dancers shifted into the same cage. What they started doing to one another was very inspirational and the groove transitioned to something dirty. Bucky knew Bassnectar. Hey knew them in and out and ‘The Matrix’ always took him somewhere lewd. Knowing Steve was above him, watching, made Bucky feel so fucking sexy. Maybe that’s why he ran his left hand slowly over Tony’s stomach and gripped the bottom of his ribcage. Maybe that’s why he started moving his hips faster against Tony’s ass. Maybe that’s why he dropped his chin onto Tony’s shoulder and hit every interested pair of eyes with his signature sex stare. Maybe that’s why he nipped at Tony’s shoulder when his eyes met Steve’s.

A Prada model, at least that’s what he looked like, with a wavy bleach blonde undercut was moving his body in ways Bucky had never seen. When Bucky traced his fingers down Tony’s entire torso he could feel the model’s eyes looking at...oh...whoops. He was _not_ looking at Tony, he was looking at _him_ , and the way he was licking his lips and letting his eyes drop to Bucky’s hips said he wanted to do a hell of a lot more than look. Wow, Bucky was kinda good at this pick up thing. Whatever, not relevant...Contestant number 1: Eliminated. Moving on...

Contestant number 2: Older guy, maybe twenty five, black polo shirt, good shoes, running his hands up and down a pretty boy with gorgeous dark skin and a half shirt. He was definitely checking out Tony over the guy’s shoulder. Assessment: too experienced. Deal breaker? Faint moustache. Eliminated.

Contestant number 3: Young guy, twenty-one/twenty-two, backwards baseball hat, cigarettes rolled up in the sleeve of his white t-shirt. Bonus points for channeling every character from ‘The Outsiders’. He was looking Tony up and down and nodding along with the music. Bucky was about to ask Tony if he thought crooked tooth Tom Cruise was cute, but then Maverick stumbled and dropped his drink. Immediate Elimination. There was no way in hell Bucky was gonna be responsible for hooking up _two_ shitfaced lushes. Next.

Then Bucky saw him; the winner on his gay game show. Contestant number 4: Early twenties, beautiful oversize blue eyes, pouty red lips, blond hair like Steve’s but longer so it flopped in his face when he moved. He was dancing with a girl about fifteen feet away from them and gradually moving closer. What clenched the win was how he was looking at Tony: with interest, but not leering. He looked friendly, sweet even. Tipping his head against the girl’s curly strawberry blonde hair, he caught Bucky’s eye between the bouncing limbs; asking a question with one raised eyebrow.

Bucky smiled back then whispered in Tony’s ear, “there’s someone watching you. See him over there? The blond in the blue t-shirt. He’s dancing with the girl with the pretty hair.”

 There was no denying the guy was cute, in a nineties club-kid kinda way. Anyone who wore a bright blue t-shirt with a red collar and a ‘Superman’ logo, tight black and white striped pants with red Keds was okay in Bucky’s book. Maybe they could go t-shirt shopping together? He was like a mini-Steve in Bucky-clothes, which he figured Tony would be super into. Duh. Cute guy was getting closer, and his dimpled smile was fucking adorable, so Bucky turned it up a notch.

“Tony, I’m gonna _really_ dance with you now, so don’t freak out.”

“What!? What did you say? Weren’t you already really dancing with me!? What the fuck were we doing if...”

“I’m gonna grind on you”, Bucky interrupted, “Okay?”

“Well, at least when Steve kills me I’ll die happy. Sure Evel Knievel, what the hell.”

When Bucky danced there was always something primal trying to escape. Natasha always told him it was instinctive, a base connection with his body that most people didn’t posses and he shouldn’t try to restrain it. All he knew was, when he really let himself dance shit got real. Bucky was obviously trying to give the showcase to contestant number 4, but more importantly he was wondering what Steve was thinking. He’d never even _hinted_ that this side of him existed, but if he wanted Steve to know everything he needed to show him _everything_. Settling back, Bucky widened his stance and gave Tony no choice but to fall low against him and started working him like Tayte Hanson. He was basically straight up fucking Tony Stark on this dance floor and it was fucking obvious that Tony liked it. Bucky looked at mini-Steve and yeah, it was fucking obvious the cute blond liked it too. He was smiling at Tony.

“Yeah Ron Jeremy, good choice”, Tony moaned anxiously, if that’s even possible, ‘that one looks good. I feel like I’m picking out a nice steak for dinner. Oh god, I’m really doing this. Bucky, I’m freaking out. I’m freaking out. Is he gonna fuck _me_!? It feels like you’re fucking me! But he’s attractive. I feel attraction. I’m glad there’s no moustache. I like his pants. My brain is so down for this; not sure about my asshole but I’m sure it’ll catch up eventually...”

“Jesus, nobody needs to fuck anybody. It's just dancing Tony!” Bucky ignored his rambling and waved the blond over.

Tony’s first super smooth words to mini-Steve were, “I’m freaking out”, which he said to nobody, but really to all of them.

Smooth. Genius mind to rival Einstein but can’t talk to a cute guy in a club...amazing. Bucky thought his mission was over, but no...Alan Turing needed more assistance. Fine. Poking Tony in the ribs Bucky leaned around and grinned at Mr. Cute and Wildly Amused. Bucky supposed amusement was a perfectly normal reaction to meeting Tony Stark for the first time, even without knowing he was _the_ Tony Stark.

Earlier, after Steve and Bucky picked out their gay-licious tank tops, it was revealed that Tony conveniently ordered a ‘Tony size’ tank for himself. It couldn’t be more perfect: bright white with ‘Questioning’ written across the front in neat red letters. His black jeans were riding nice and low, maybe because Bucky tugged them down a little, and the tight jacket he was wearing was grey with way too many pockets. Maybe he was trying to bring the eighties back? And that watch on his wrist?...totally worth more than Bucky’s house. At the loft Tony spent almost an hour in the bathroom getting ready and he emerged with his hair doing a Bucky approved Jared Leto sticking up kinda thing. It was a well known fact that Bucky had an unhealthy obsession with Jared Leto. Bring on ‘long ombre’ Jared, or ‘emo black hair with red tips’ Jared, or ‘green Joker’ Jared, or ‘Marshawk’ Jared, or ‘mullet’ Jared, or ‘cornrow’ Jared, or ‘Rayon in a wig’ Jared, invite them all! Bucky was down for Jared in any form. Tony was rocking the ‘mullet growing out and standing up really tall’ Jared and he looked hot...shockingly _hot_.

Last Sunday, when Tony was flipping Mad Hatter pancakes in silky polka dot boxers, Bucky’s brain had a true ‘a-ha’ moment and shifted Tony Stark firmly into the ‘hot’ category. Pre-pancake Category: Good looking? Check. Fashionable? Check. But sexy? Hot? Never crossed his mind. Post-pancakes Category: Well, Bucky could now add those adjectives to his list. Check and check. Obviously not his type, but his hotness still deserved some Bucky appreciation. Cute blond seemed to be digging it too.

“Hi, this is Tony”, Bucky said like he hooked people up all day long, like it was his day job. He put his hand behind Hot Tony’s back and nudged him forward. Then he stage whispered, “newbie”, and the guy laughed. He had a really nice laugh. “What’s your name?”

“Macaulay.”

“Well, Macauley, I’m Bucky, and I need to get back to my very patient boyfriend over there.” He pointed proudly at Steve who gave them a cute little wave. “So you should totally take my place.”

Mini-Steve quirked a dimpled smile at Bucky and waved back at Steve. “Well, I’ve got to say Bucky, you’re a lucky boy; dancing with this cutie then running home to that gorgeous specimen in the balcony. I’d be honored to take your place so you can go play with your man.”

Macauley looked Tony right in the eye and Bucky felt the air whooshing by his helmet as he ran full speed down the sideline. The football was spiraling right at him as his feet crossed the five yard line. He was about to win the whole fucking game…

“Hi Tony, wanna dance?”

“Touchdown!”

Bucky was a pimp! He did not give a fuck how insane he looked jumping up and down screaming ‘touchdown’ at the top of his lungs. Tony deserved a juicy kiss on the cheek, and Macauley got one for good measure! Pimp! Fuck yeah he was! He was gonna make everyone call him a pimp for the rest of the weekend! As Macauley pulled a shell shocked Tony against him, Bucky turned to Steve and took a little bow, and added some sort of hyper-masculine touchdown dance, cuz he’s the shit!

Oh, the time had come; it was about to get real up in this mother fuckin’ club! Bucky took negative three seconds to signal to Steve with a dramatic shake of his head that very clearly translated to ‘get the fuck down here and dance with me right this fucking second Steven Grant Rogers!’

Because his boyfriend is a smart cookie Steve leap off his barstool, grabbed a couple shots from the shot boy, and ran for the stairs. It was easy to spot his excellent blond hair over the crowd...Bucky _may_ have gone a little ‘Hurricane’ Jared when he styled it because he’s got a thing, sue him...but the butterflies that bubbled up in his stomach as Steve wove his way through the writhing bodies proved that Stevie was his _real_ thing.

Steve handed Bucky the shot and they both let their heads tip back. It tasted like apples and rainbows and he felt so goddamn happy! Throwing his arms around the hottest boy in the room Bucky yelled, “fucking finally!”

“What? You miss me baby? I mean, it seemed like Stark was keeping you pretty busy…or maybe you were the one keeping _Stark_ pretty busy.” Steve took both glasses and set them on the floor before _finally_ giving Bucky what he’d been waiting for all fucking night. The feeling of Steve’s hand sneaking under his shirt and running firmly up his spine made Bucky so damn horny. Once his fingers reached the base of his neck, Steve gave him that challenging little smirk. God, there it was...he was instantly back in the space he craved.

“Yeah Stevie, I’m totally dumping you for him. You’re just too tall for me.” Bucky leaned forward and licked across his neck. “Who needs a perfect boyfriend like you when I can have an alcoholic who insults me all day?”

“He’s better for you anyway.” Steve’s other hand slid down across his ass and gave it a firm squeeze before he whispered, “he can buy you your own airplane.”

When Bucky was dancing with Tony, he was hyper-aware of everything around him and it stressed him out...like ‘wake up you need to make money’ stressed out...but Steve’s perfect hands instantly shrunk Bucky’s world back to building rocket ships and flying far away. When Steve’s middle finger pressed between his legs there was only music and outer space and _them_ . Instinct kicked in and their connection turned on, the groove taking them to a wonderful place where Bucky didn’t have to think. A place where he only had to _feel_ and Steve was right there with him. A place where they anticipated one another’s movements and sensed when to switch from half-time rhythms to tempos only they could hear. Steve understood music, he understood instinct, he understood how Bucky needed to move, and he understood the true nature of power. As DJ Snake’s ‘Propaganda’ climbed it’s impossibly slow hill towards the climax, Steve was pulling Bucky’s shirt backwards against his neck and the air flowing across his exposed back took him to a place where they were free to play pretend. Steve’s cock was rock hard when he ground up against him, the lights were starting to make him feel dizzy, and Steve’s hand was, oh my god Steve’s hand was…

“Stevie, show me.”

“Yeah?” Steve pressed a kiss against Bucky’s lips and sounded so hot when he whispered, “show you what, baby?” His fingers sneaked beneath the waistband of Bucky’s jeans and ran along the top of his ass and fuck, he was so turned on right now.

“That I’m yours, just yours.”

“Oh I plan to”, Steve growled in his ear.

Jesus fucking christ, the way Steve said that...perfect. The haze started coming across his mind and the word ‘freedom’ kept flashing across his vision. Freedom to touch his boyfriend however he wanted to touch him. Freedom to move his body exactly the way he wanted to. Freedom to give himself over and trust someone completely. Freedom to let the feeling envelope him. And most importantly the freedom to know with absolute certainty that Steve would be waiting on the other side.

So Bucky kissed him, _really_ kissed him, for the first time in public. They weren’t hiding, or escaping, or pretending. Fuck all that! They were two horny teenagers making out in the middle of a vampire rave, splashing their sneakers in the Rainbow Kool-Aide and discovering the bliss of soft lips, warm tongues, and gentle nibbles.

Mimicking the way he danced with Steve at the loft, Bucky ticked his shoulders and let his green chucks pull him forward, because this was a memory he wanted to fix. Bucky pulled Steve’s hands to the exact same spot on the small of his back and said, “don’t let me go”.

This time, when he arched his body backwards he wasn’t diving away from fifty-four sombrero wearing llamas of rage, he wasn’t diving away from cruelty he couldn’t control, and he wasn’t trying to get away from all the pain...this time it was a trust fall.

He looked at the people, _their_ people, dancing upside down all around them and it was the perfect upside-down moment. Steve held him tightly as he swayed among the legs of the underworld, supporting him with all the commitment and strength Bucky knew he’d offer Steve if their roles were reversed. He bent impossibly lower and trusted Steve completely.

*****

 

God, Clint was so glad that things were somewhat back to normal...not that they were _actually_ back to normal...what did that even mean anymore? But at least Bucky wasn’t acting like a totally insane dickface anymore.

When Bucky held that shirt up and winked, Clint wanted to punch him in the face. He wanted to punch _himself_ in the face too. He wanted to punch everyone in the face, honestly. But somehow Steve stopped the Royal Rumble, and Clint instantly went from body slam mode to hug mode when Bucky whispered some sort of truth in his ear. Maybe he’d been prepared for another jab, another shitty comment about Nat, another knife in the heart about what they used to do...but he wasn’t prepared for Bucky to whisper ‘Brock touched me, and he called me cupcake, and I’m fucked up. I’m fucked up and I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I don’t know what I’m doing’. Then he’d backed up and signed, ‘I’m happy for you and Nat. I love you. I’m sorry. I need a cupcake’, and none of it mattered anymore.

Clint wrapped him up in his arms and caught Steve’s eye. God these two. They were both a mess, and it was scary how much they needed him! He liked Steve, despite all the drama, and he liked Steve and Bucky together. But jesus they were both a mess. Clint felt so overwhelmed in that moment, with obnoxious Azealia Banks blaring, and Tony bounding around like a tank top salesman on crack, and Bucky apologizing...but he got it, he understood why they were both being dumbasses and not talking about it. Because really, when Clint thought about the word ‘cupcake’ spewing out of Rumlow’s mouth, he didn’t know what to say either.

So they just moved on. They just waltzed right into Therapy, the hottest gay club in New York City, like they owned the place. Stark strutted right past the huge line, said his name to the bouncer, and they got ushered right past the velvet rope. Nobody got carded, which was a miracle since Scott looks like he’s fourteen, and the mostly naked bartenders abandoned the waiting wall of people and hustled right over to Tony as soon as he leaned his rich elbows against the bar. Money. It kinda made Clint sick. But since he _was_ happy to get a beer so quickly he supposed he was a hypocrite. He sent Nat a few pictures, and she sent back a smokin’ hot shot of her feet wrapped up in her pink pointe shoes. He had a little foot fetish and Nat knew how to treat him right.

Sam snapped a hilarious picture of Clint wrapping his arm around a pudgy guy in a very cheap Ariel wig and some sort of coconut bra. He...or should he say she?...he was going with she. She couldn’t keep the coconuts from falling down so the picture captured Clint trying to help her yank them back up over her nipples. She was magnificent, especially since Bucky’s favorite Disney movie was ‘The Little Mermaid’. Clint sent the picture to Skinner and Daisy to make them jealous and it totally worked. Skinner snapped back a sad looking selfie with red hair and a coconut bra hastily drawn over top. Steve almost spit out his beer when Clint showed him. Classic. Daisy sent a pic of her black cat with no further explanation. They should be here and Clint vowed to pack them in his suitcase next time.

He leaned over to Steve, who was watching the Tony and Bucky show with interest, and said, “So your boyfriend’s giving it to Stark good, huh?”

Steve chuckled and shook his head. “Yeah, he’s being a little naughty.”

“More that a little naughty.” Sam shoved into Steve’s shoulder and raised his eyebrows. “I think Bucky’s gonna break him.”

“He’s gonna dance him to death.” Scott continued to look freaked out. It was his theme.

“Seriously man,” Sam slung and arm over Steve’s shoulder and continued, “you’ve got no problem with that?”

Steve smiled at all three of them, then spread his arms wide like he didn’t have a care in the world. “Nope.”

Another round of drinks arrived, courtesy of Stark’s open tab, and Clint could only marvel at Steve Rogers. He was such a mystery, and Bucky was becoming a mystery, and it was all crazy. He took a huge swig of his third twelve-dollar beer and watched Steve watching Bucky. Somehow Rogers had a solid hold on his best friend and Clint wasn’t gonna be a cock about it, because what?... did he think he was gonna spoon feed Bucky superman ice cream and bandage his boo-boos for the rest of their lives? He took another drink of his very expensive beer, thanks Stark, and swallowed down the fact that he’d never even considered that he _wasn’t_ gonna spoon feed Bucky superman ice cream and bandage his boo-boos for the rest of their lives. And he wasn’t gonna consider it right now, because right now he was gonna think about this beer, and this music, and dancing.

After Bucky’s little show manhandling Stark...seriously what the fuck was that?...Steve looked really turned on ran down the stairs to go eat Bucky alive. It was a spectacle. They were drawing a crowd and Clint thought they should just live here; horny captive tigers released into their natural habitat. They seriously looked like one creature writhing around out there in the gay jungle. And Stark? Well, that cute little Superman dude was showing him what’s what, and after they downed a couple more shots Tony was letting himself get felt up, and felt down, and felt everywhere, and he looked pretty damn happy about it. Sam got whisked away by cute little dude’s friend, she said her name was Chloe and she had pretty curly strawberry blonde hair and red lipstick. She made him miss Nat. That left him with Scott, and no Nat, and he wasn’t gonna just sit here looking at Snapchats of his girlfriend’s feet, Skinner The Little Mermaid, and Brutus the cat while feeling sorry for himself.

“Dude, I’m bored. Let’s go dance,” Clint yelled to Scott before chugging the rest of his beer.

Scott looked at him wide-eyed...he’d been wide eyed since they walked into this den of sin... but now he looked extra wide eyed. “Uhhhh, woah, like together? You and me dancing?”

“Bro, no worries. I’m straight, I’m cool. You’re straight, and sorta cool. I think that two cool straight guys can dance together in a club without it being a big deal. Aren’t you sick of just sitting here watching everyone else have fun?”

Scott paused and shook out his arms before slamming his drink too. It was a double so Clint thought that probably was a mistake. “Why not? I _am_ sorta cool. I _am_ straight. I’m secure with myself. Yeah. Yeah. Let’s do this. I’m pumped. Totally pumped about this gay club and dancing with a very spiky dude, but _not_ being gay with him. Yes, this sounds awesome.”

Clint chuckled because he was gonna have a little fun with wide-eyed Scott Lang. “C’mon then little man, time to join PFLAG.”

“Yes! PFLAG supporter. That’s totally me.” He took a few stumbling steps towards the dance floor, trailing behind Clint and hollered, “what’s PFLAG?”

Clint shook his head and thought back to all the times he’d danced with Bucky in their rooms and how they always ended up laughing hysterically after attempting obnoxiously sexy and acrobatic dance moves. The end result was they both were great dancers... well, Bucky was otherworldly...but Clint knew what he was doing. When he got closer to the tigers he could see that Bucky had a leg hitched up on Steve’s hip and was riding his thigh while Steve chewed on his neck. It was an eye opening experience to watch Steve Rogers stretch the straps of Bucky’s tank top tightly against his shoulders and neck, yanking it down so everyone could see half of Bucky’s back. It was dirty, sexy and kinda shocking. Not only because Steve was ‘straight’ a week and a half ago, but because Bucky certainly never danced with Clint like that.

Clint swallowed the weird lump in his throat. Great, now he knows exactly what his best friend looks like when he’s fucking; now he’d have _another_ weird comparison between Bucky and Nat...wasn’t that just wonderful? When Steve reached up and tangled his fingers in Bucky’s hair, pulling his neck further back so he could bite at his collar bones, Clint had a very unwelcome memory of his fingers in that same position.  

He grabbed Scott by the waist and pulled them into the middle of the thick crowd because he _was_ sick of sitting on the sidelines, and he _was_ sick of feeling...jealous? What the fuck man? It was time to move on. He _had_ moved on! Watching Bucky falling backwards and swaying upside down, it was obvious that _he’d_ moved on and Steve was his soulmate or something. So….Clint was moving on. Moving on and dancing with Scott Lang.

Poor Scott looked like that double shot was hitting him as Clint started nodding his head and twisting the muscles over his shoulder blades along with the music.

“Ok Scott, let’s do this!”

Clint pressed one hand against the side of his head and let the other slide under his suspender, yes he was gonna wear them everywhere, and tugged the strap along with the bass. Scott started doing the sprinkler...the _sprinkler_! When Lang busted out the lawnmower Clint couldn’t help it, he just let himself throw the dice and have fun. There was no resistance when Clint pulled Scott against him to Patrick Swayze the hell out of him, just impossibly wider eyes as Scott yelled over the music, “wow, you’re totally rubbing your crotch on me. But that’s cool, because I’m gonna admit this...this is awesome! Not your crotch on me. That’s weird. But the rest...awesome! No girl has ever rubbed her crotch on me like that! Actually no girl has ever rubbed her crotch on me at all, so you’re taking my crotch rubbing virginity. That’s even more weird, but I’m definitely feeling some fun happening here”. Scott pointed to his brain before continuing, “not here.” He pointed to his dick and Clint died laughing.

He kinda loved Scott Lang.

*****

 

“I have a present for you!” Tony was so excited and started crawling over legs and feet and bodies to rip open the box of buttons that he forgot about, but now remembered! Grabbing a handful of his brilliance he yelled, “buttons!”, before launching himself backwards into the arms of Macaulay. Yes, next to Macaulay, because Macaulay was a very cute guy, and Tony was totally taking Macauley back to the loft. Macauley, Macauley, Macauley. Tony was now a slut with all genders. Hot damn!

“Macaulay! Here’s your very own, handcrafted by me, well not really...I paid for them to be handcrafted...but whatever, here’s your very own ‘Support Steve & Bucky’ button! Oh, let me pin it on Superman! I think Superman would support gay rights, right? Right? Right? Right?”

He thought maybe he was yelling, but he didn’t care. His job was pinning this happy gay rainbow button on this cute happy gay guy! Tony squinted and shoved his entire arm up Macaulay’s shirt and it made the cutie pie smile. He had dimples! “I feel the need to inform you that I don’t want to stab you so I’m touching your body for safety. My arm is rubbing across your nipples because I’m an engineer, so I know that safety is important.”

Macaulay snorted as Tony took a very long time pinning the button; a very long time indeed. In fact, he enjoyed his time under Macauley’s Superman shirt so much that he pinned on five more.

“Tony, why do you have a million rainbow buttons that say...” Steve held one up in front of his face and tried to focus on it. “...Support Steve & Bucky?”

Bucknado twisted over, sucking up a few cows along the way, and grabbed a few buttons out of the box. He laughed, “no fucking way!”

“He was gonna hand ‘em out at the dance”, Sam snickered. “He had a grand plan.”

“But I got wasted and forgot!” Tony cracked up and tried to pin one on Sam because Sam was definitely a supporter of the gays!

“I’m actually touched Tony.” Steve smiled and pinned one over Bucky’s bellybutton.

Damn right he should be touched! Tony did a touching thing, because he’s a sentimental guy like that. The limo turned a sharp corner and Tony had another brilliant idea...like they ever stopped. “Hey, my driver needs one too! Michael! Michael Jordan my main limo man, you get two!” He threw two buttons through the divider and they landed hard on the dash. Maybe that wasn’t very safe. He was breaking his own safety rules! But it was a good throw, considering his level of inebriation. “Michael Bolton, join our club! It’s a super cool, newly open minded ‘gay as fuck’ club! Steve’s our leader! It says so on his shirt! Even though I designed the buttons, and paid for them, and paid for his shirt, and paid for his boyfriend’s shirt, he’s the boss.”

“Mr. Stark, thank you, but can you please not throw things while I’m driving?”

“Mr. _Stark_?” Macaulay’s very nice friend Katie, Courtney, Christy...well, damn. She was looking at him like she just realized who the fuck he was, because she did...in fact...just realize who the fuck he was. Crap.

“Oh, never mind the name behind the curtain silly. it’s just money. _All_ the money, but still just money. Michael! Hey, Michael J. Fox! You’ve gotta start calling me Tony, my real identity freaks people out, and for god’s sake ‘Support Steve and Bucky!”

Tony lunged forward and grabbed the entire box of excellent buttons and dumped the whole thing onto the floor. “Catch!”, he yelled and tossed the box at Scott. He missed. He always missed. That’s why Tony always threw shit at him! Bullseye! Right in the face!

“Fuck you Tony”, Scott slurred because he’d taken full advantage of Tony’s generosity.

The buttons made an awesome sound every time Michael Fassbender turned a corner, sloshing them around their feet. Maybe Magneto the limo driver could make them float around? Tony propped up his feet on his Golden Retriever and prepared to muse about buttons. “I need my own personal button too. It should say ’newly bisexual’. I need a minion to get on that. Scott!”, he yelled way too loudly. Macauley covered his ears and giggled. Oh, he was cute when he giggled. “I’m that German lady from Austin Powers! Ha HA!” He cackled because he was gonna yell full volume at Scott like Frau Farbissina for the rest of their lives! “Scott!!! You’re my Button Minion!”

“I’m button man,” Scott sounded like a monotone robot because he was the treasurer in Tony’s underage drinking club. It was very exclusive.

“And this guy here...” Tony slung his arm around Macauley and grinned right in his face, because he liked his face. “...this is my hot guide to the land of dicks and butts, and dicks _in_ butts. He needs his own button too!” Tony thought ‘why the hell not’ and kissed his medium-rare New York Strip on his apple cheek. But Macauley was not having any of his wimpy cheek shit and yanked Tony’s face into a very porny kiss. With tongue! With man tongue!

“Holy fuck, he kissed me! Did you all see that! Buckyberry, did you see that!?” He tried to stretch his leg far enough to kick Buckygum’s knee but he had short legs, which was so frustrating. Bluebucky was totally sucking Steve’s entire face into his mouth and ignored Tony completely. Ugh, no support!

“Scott!!! Macauley needs his personalized button right now! Scott!” Where the hell was Scott? Tony whipped his head around because how could he lose Scott in a limousine?! “Scott!!! Oh there you are! Phew. Write this down!”

“Tony I’m not sure you’re being loud enough. Maybe you should speak up.” Sam was giving him the ‘dad’ look, so Tony very maturely stuck out his tongue, because there were no dad’s allowed at this party!

Like a good little Button Minion, Scott was actually looking around in a panic. “I don’t have anything to write with…”

“Minutia Scott! Write it on Clint’s arm with Clint’s eyeliner. Robert Smith, get out your eyeliner! Or did you use it all for the Disintegration video? Hold on, wait. I need more inspiration.”

If you’re gonna swim in the gay water you might as well cannonball in the deep end with flair! Tony leaned over to really kiss this guy; this hot Superman in striped pants who kissed _sooo_ good. His lips were a little chapped but they were pillowy, he tasted like cinnamon schnapps, he was sucking on Tony’s tongue and that sealed the deal. His experiment was a success! Then Superman started kissing his neck and nibbling on his earlobe while Tony brainstormed his button idea; not Super _girl_ , Super _man_! He made a mental decree: from this moment forward he’d brainstorm every projects with a minion named ‘Scott!!!’ on call, and a guy named Macaulay sucking hickies into his neck. Damn, so much inspiration already!

“Here it comes. It’s coming! I’m coming soon too! I hope! But not yet, no premature ejaculation on this ride! This mental gift to humanity is a fabulous button idea for Macaulay!” Tony waved his arms around, like he always did before revealing a genius idea, and accidentally hit Sam in the nose. But he was mid-idea so Sam’s nose was collateral damage. They needed drama! Theater! A soaring Aria by Wagner, Verdi, Amadeus Mozart, Tony Stark...so he sang in his best Operatic alto, “Tony Stark likes my lips.”

“Is Scott writing that one down? With his nonexistent paper?” Buckynut had spit out Steve’s face long enough to return to his regular broadcast of smartass.

Cindy...Candy...Coco…Brenda?...god he was a dick for not remembering her name!...she smiled at him and said, “it’s a nice sentiment.”

Steve shrugged, because he never appreciated genius, then looked Tony’s kissable Clark Kent up and down. “He does have nice lips.”

“They are pretty,” Buckybutter looked at Tony’s man, _his man_ , with those stupid sexy eyes and licked his own stupidly sexy lips. “You should totally kiss them again.”

Oh, Buckychop was brilliant! Tony may have been seeing double, but he did not miss Steve and Buckysoup exchanging dirty dirty dirty raised eyebrow looks, because they’re a couple of Dirk Digglers itching to see what’s behind the green door.

But Tony had far more important things to worry about. “That, my sweet perverts, is an excellent suggestion!” He dove back into those pillowy lips and accidentally bumped Macauley’s teeth. Which hurt! But the pain was worth it because it sparked another, even better genius idea! The last one sucked compared to this gem. “Oh, Oh, Scott!!! Button Master! By Scott, I know I’ve got it! ‘S & M’. That’s us! Stark and Macaulay! Support S & M!”

Everyone laughed, because how could they not? Even unsupportive ‘won’t wear a button Michael Buble’ snickered and Tony knew he had a hit!

“I don’t know if I can wear that one man”, Sam was chuckling and playing with Cami’s, Carlita’s...Tony really looked at her, he was gonna go with ‘Gitsie’, because he could. Plus thinking of twenty names every time he looked at her was really time consuming! Sam was playing with Gitsie’s curly hair and she was looking at Tony like she knew he just renamed her Gitsie in his mind. Maybe her name was Madame Gitsie and she had a crystal ball in her very tiny purse? Tony tried to stare her down but she won in two seconds.

“I’ll wear it!” Steve and Bucky yelled at the same time.  

Clint Vicious stretched his very cool combat boot out, Tony needed to get a pair of those, and kicked Buckynoodle in the knee. “You’re the kinkiest fuckers, I swear to god!”

Where does one buy boots that look like they were worn in the eighties by Henry Rollins, got meat all over them at a GWAR show, _and_ got run over by a garbage truck? And would they look good with a Gucci suit? More info needed.

“What’s S&M?”, Button Minion asked all innocently.

“Oh you precious baby”, Macaulay chuckled as kinky Captain and Tennille resumed face sucking.

The limo came to a halt...about fucking time!...and Tony screamed, “buttons for everyone!!! Don’t let me down Scott!!!”, as he fell out the door and landed hard on the sidewalk. Tony could only laugh as twenty glorious buttons fell out all around him and Superman reached down for the rescue.

*****

 

“Get over here Steve! Jesus, why are you such a slow pokey dopey dope slow-mo bro?” Bucky flopped back on the bed with a big poofy sound coming from the blue down comforter. “Take off my shoes Stevie, they’re far away from my hands.” He opened and closed his hands like a conductor directing a fast staccato beat and it made Steve laugh. Or maybe he looked more like a mad lobster, which made Steve laugh even more.

Yes. Steve wanted to take off those shoes. Take them right off those feet. Maybe bite those Greek toes! Woah! Toe biting! Huh, that’s a new one. Anyway, shoes! Off! He let himself jump onto the bed next to his babydoll, ha that’s a keeper, and grabbed a long leg, that his _babydoll_ was wiggling around way too much! It was impossible to to wrestle his shoe within reach. “Hey, you gotta help.”

Bucky made a very half-assed attempt to lift his foot and drop it into Steve’s hands, but only succeeded in almost kicking him in the head.

“Ha!”, Bucky yelled, “I’m a ninja!”

“You’re not a ninja! You’re a jerk for almost taking out my face!” Steve laughed as he finally wrestled off the green high top. “Plus, ninjas don’t wear cat socks. Buck, these socks have fat cats on them.” This was a very confusing fashion choice, especially because the cats were so fat! Why put overweight cats on a pair of socks? Were fat cats better sellers than normal size cats?

“Wait till you see what’s on my underwear!” Bucky bit his lip and bounced his ass up and down on the mattress a few times. “That was a hint by the way Steven. Pants. Remove my pants! Pants off. Take off my pants!”

Steve sighed like he was put off by that request, but he was not at all put off by that request one iota. That was a very good idea. Steve wanted to remove the pants because underneath the pants was...wow… underneath the pants Bucky had beautiful, beautiful stuff for him to play with! He pushed himself upright and took hold of the hem of each leg. Skinny jeans. Skinny jean removal challenge. He started tugging but they were not moving. This was sad. “They’re stuck!”

Bucky ran his hands over his chest and the tugged down the collar of his tank top that was definitely sticking to his muscles. “I am kinda sweaty.”

Oh, his chest was glistening and Steve needed to get underneath these pants! He started tugging really hard and yelled, “lift up your ass!”

“You’re holding my legs in the air so that’s physically impossible but, physics aside, I’d love to lift up my ass for you.” He winked because winking was his thing. Such a weirdo!

Winking aside this declaration gave Steve renewed vigor because...well obvious. He yanked so hard that the skinny jean chastity belt broke free with an abrupt slide; and now he was falling. Falling backwards into the door and slamming right into it, hard. But he had the pants!

“Everything alright in there fuck bunnies?” Clint yelled from the living room.

“Shhhhhhh.” Steve said to nobody then straddled his beautiful boyfriend’s thighs so he could fully appreciate the tight red boy shorts, with the white trim, and the tiny white heart stretched over his dick. They were very tight. They were very, very tight. Tight. The outline of Bucky’s cock was pinned so tight underneath that heart, and Steve knew from experience that something else under those underwear was very, very tight too. He cracked himself up, and made himself blush; no outside help required.

Bucky rolled his hips up underneath Steve and oh god... they had to do the talk thing. Steve  had to make sure they did the talk thing. He could not do the special thing he wanted to do if they did not do the talk thing first. Ugh, he didn’t want to do the talk. He wanted to take off those sexy little underwear! “Bucky, did you look up what I told you to look up?”

“Oh Stevie, c’mon, don’t you like my undies?”

Fuck yes he liked his undies! They were so tiny, and so tight that his pubes were peeking out the top, and he’d like to put his face there. That would be a very good place for his face. Mmmmmmm. But no. Nope... “Baby, your underwear is seriously the best thing I’ve ever seen on another body, ever. If the statue of David was gonna wear some underwear, you know if Michaelangelo felt like sculpting him some super tight undies that let his ass cheeks peek out the bottom, it should be these, because fuck, you look so hot. But we have to do the talk thing. Did you read it?”

“The subspace stuff?”

“Yeah, ding dong. I’m supposed to prepare us and be the boss and make sure we’ve got the safe words for the safety.”

“So we can have safe sex?” Bucky cracked up and Steve knew exactly why. They were not good at The Safe Sex.

Steve laughed and rubbed his palm along the length of Bucky’s dick and up to his belly button. “Can we take this shirt off you sweetheart? I wanna see you.” Steve leaned forward and pulled the tank top over Bucky’s head so he was looking at every inch of him in his distracting red underwear. Steve touched the cotton hugging Bucky’s hips and said, “these are distracting.”

“Then take them off.”

Steve tried very hard to be firm. Ha, firm. He was already firm. Jesus, focus. He tried again. “Not until we do the thing. What’s your safe word Bucky? Mine’s gonna be ‘Pierce’.”

“Steve that’s awful! Holy fuck, why would you want it to be that?!”

Bucky looked legit horrified, which yeah, that’s the point! “It’s _supposed_ to be something you’d never really say, and that’s the worst word ever!”

“Ugh, I hate it. Okay fine, mine’ll be ‘pickle’, because pickles are fucking disgusting! Now c’mon, I really wanna have some serious sex Steve. I want you to fuck me.”

“Oh my god Bucky.” That would not be a problem. No problem there. He shook his head at Bucky because he was being unruly. Cute and unruly. “We’re supposed to talk about what’s okay to do.”

“Says who?”

Steve stopped because it was obvious...“You didn’t read the stuff.”

“I didn’t read the stuff.” Bucky stuck out his tongue and reached down to run his hands up Steve’s thighs. “Kinda hard to fuck me with all these clothes, don’t ya think? I request less clothes. Less clothes please.”

Okay, Steve could multi-task, he was a talented human, and he really wanted to press his skin onto Bucky’s. And he had ideas. He had _all_ the ideas. He tore the very accurate tank top over his head, because he was _so_ gay: gay as fuck, ready to fuck in the gay way. The red belt of sex made such a hasty exit from his pants that it launched across the room and landed over the curtain rod.

“No belt tonight?” Bucky did the lip bite, which always stopped Steve in his tracks. That lip bite was the foundation religions were built on. Steve would build a golden altar to the omnipotent power of that holy lip bite.

Steve let his index fingers run over Bucky’s nipples. “Got other plans.” Fuck, he just wanted to play with his nipples! Dammit. He let go of the nipples. Dammit! “But first we gotta do this. Tell me what you’d like me to do to you.”

“Fuck me.”

“Stop being a jerk.” Steve pointed a mad finger at that smirking face. “Allow me to give you an example, since you have such a one way track brain right now.” Steve couldn’t help but snap the waist on the tight, tight underwear. “For example, you liked it when I tied your hands. That was a winning move. So Bucky Boo, ha I just called you Bucky Boo,” Steve laughed, “is it okay if I hold you down or tie you up in other ways?”

“Hell yes it is!” Bucky pinched his eyebrows together like it was hard to think, but he managed. “Oh!”, he yelled, “I get it. I get it! I get to make naughty requests right now! Order up some kinky shit off the ‘Steve Rogers Menu of Kinky Shit’! Okay sir, I’m ready to order my appetizer. First off, I want you to tell me what to do. That was so damn hot when you told me not to move, then not to come, and oh my god, do more of that! I like the bossy Steve. Be my boss bitch!”

“Boss bitch?”

Bucky was nodding vigorously and he yelled, “yes! Own it! And you should hold me down.”

“I’m down for holding you down.”

“You should pull my hair.” Bucky reached up and looped his own fingers into his wild hair and gave it a tug, as a helpful demonstration.

“Really?” Steve was starting to like the talk. “Okay, yeah my dick just jumped in my pants so I’m down for that too.”

“Speaking of pants,” Bucky grabbed at his knees and slapped the pants like they personally offended him, “you’re a stupid-face for still having them covering your dick. Let it out! I like it! I wanna be it’s special friend!”

Steve rolled over and got rid of them, because yeah, they were stupid, and his black boxer briefs looked really boring next to the tiny, tight, red wonders with the cock-heart. But he didn’t think about it too long because Bucky just asked him to pull his hair, and lord have mercy, this talk was going very well! He flopped back on top of Bucky and kissed his neck. “Can I bite you a little?”

“Like a vampire?”

“Not that hard but…”

“Fuck yes you can! I was just pretending I was a vampire in my head at the club! True story! I’ll let you be Stephen Dorff. And you should spank me! Oh my god! Will you spank me!?” Bucky wriggled underneath him like he was asking for a new puppy for Christmas or something, not asking Steve to slap his ass. That would be a funny list to Santa. Maybe Steve should write this stuff down and decorate it with puffy Christmas stickers!

 

Dear Santa, My name is Bucky Barnes and I’ve been a _very_ good boy this year. Here’s my list of naughty goodies I want for Christmas.

1\. Please make Stevie my Boss Bitch

2\. Enhance Stevie’s hair pulling skills

3\. Endless spankings

4\. Silk ties (maybe with polka dots?) for kinky bondage

5\. Detailed Vampire fantasy roleplay

6\. Fucking

7\. Additional Fucking

8\. More Fucking

 

Steve cracked up and let his hand touch Bucky’s cute little ass, that he was totally gonna spank. Oh yeah, his good boy was gonna get all the toys on his list! Ha, he was such a perv.

“Yeah doll, I can spank you. Can I spank you in these underwear? Because Buck, I gotta be honest, I love these tiny little things and how they show off your big dick. It’s so fucking hot.”

“Aww these little ol’ things?” He shifted so the head of his cock was peeking out the top and holy fuck, holy fuck, Steve had to get through this. This was his job! The internet said that!

“Oh fuck Bucky, jesus….”

“You’re swearing a lot. You sound like me.” Bucky laughed and put his hands behind his head like a passive observer of Steve’s bad language words.

“Well fuck, your dick is like, peeking at me. Look at that shit!” He did some serious accusatory dick pointing. “Look at that peeking cock trying to suck me in! I didn’t even know I liked dicks until last week and now yours is sucking me in with its peek-a-boo head. Your dick is magic and its winning right now! But _I’m_ supposed to be the Dom here. _I’m_ the boss.”

“Who’s the boss?”

“Oh god. Okay, I’m doing the bossy thing. Buck, stop right now and tell me what you _don’t_ want me to do.”

“Ooooo, I liked that. Okay, I don’t really know my options here punk, cause I did not do my homework. What else is new!?” He cracked up at himself. “I need an example or something.”

Steve put his hands on his head and tried to remember, but they drank all the shots and there were a lot of words on that website. “I don’t know, like Google said slapping or hitting and that’s totally not my thing. I don’t ever want to hit you.”

“No! No hitting. That’s a great rule Steve! Okay, can we fuck now?”

Steve gave up because this was a very long process and Bucky’s chest was looking all delicious, and he said ‘fuck me’ like twenty times already, and Steve _really_ wanted to get to that request. “Fine, you’re the worst, but you gotta do the safe word thing if you start feeling something you don’t like, and you’re supposed to tap me or something if you’re all Russian again and can’t say the word. Baby, are you paying attention? You’re supposed to practice it. Tap me three times on my leg.”

Bucky leaned forward and tapped Steve three times on his painfully hard erection. “One, two, three. I got it, now fuck me, god fucking dammit!”

“Wow! Okay! Bossy! But can I give you something first?”

“My ass is feeling very impatient but its gonna have to wait if you brought me a present.” Bucky very unfairly reached down and pressed his middle finger against his ass through his tiny, tiny underwear and tapped like he was knocking or something. “Hear that ass? Hold your horses. Daddy brought me a present.”

“Did you just call me daddy?”

“Noooo...” Bucky let the word stretch out in a long denial as he very distinctly nodded yes.

Steve spit across Bucky’s chest from laughing so hard, then leaned over to grab his backpack from the side of the bed. Trying not to fall off the edge was tricky because the room was still spinning a little bit, but he survived. Okay, but this is serious business. It was Business Time! He sat back up next to Bucky who was still wiggling on the bed like a naughty little jumping bean. “Bucky listen please.”

He stopped instantly and focused his tipsy eyes right on Steve’s.

“Thank you baby.” Steve let his hand fall onto Bucky’s thigh because he really wanted him to understand what he meant with this gift. It was so important. “So, when I got your shoes at John Fluevog the, the um... this store I read about when I was doing our sex research was in the same neighborhood. And um, my research told me that sometimes...that you might like this, that _we_ might like one of these, and I _really_ liked the idea of giving you this, but maybe I’m assuming too much. I mean, I really feel this way about you, but I don’t...I mean on the roof Thursday I got the idea you might like this because when I put my hand around your neck you kinda... but I didn’t do it enough to have you do the Russian thing, and I’m worried about the Russian thing, and handling it right, taking care of you right. And this is kind of a big deal, from what I read, it’s like a statement of um, fuck... so if this isn’t your thing just…”

“Steve. Gimme.” Bucky held out grabby hands and smiled that toothy smile. ‘Please.”

Taking a deep breath he handed him the flat rectangular box. The silver paper reflected the lamp light onto Bucky’s beautiful face, and the shiny red ribbon looked gorgeous next to the translucent skin of his palm. He didn’t haphazardly rip off the paper like he did with the Walkman. Instead, Bucky leaned over and kissed Steve on the cheek and said, “you’re too good to me Stevie”, as he carefully started peeling back the paper.

When the black leather box came into view, Bucky paused and Steve was so damn nervous. Especially after what happened with fucking Rumlow...maybe this was the wrong time. Dammit. Wow, he was even swearing a lot in his mind! But he also really _wanted_ Bucky to have this after what happened with Rumlow. He didn’t know why. Or maybe he did. Bucky blinked and looked up at Steve like he was nervous too.

“Go ahead baby. Open it.”

The little box creaked as Bucky lifted the lid, and his inhale when he saw the black leather collar was something slow. It was about an inch and a half wide and crafted in soft leather with smooth beveled edges. The silver buckle was backed with a leather flap so nothing cold could touch his beautiful boy’s neck. Steve chose it because the texture of the leather was unique, with odd little wrinkles that made it more beautiful than the uniform ones. Plus, it didn’t look harsh, like the collar would try to dominate the neck; it looked soft and supple. When the clerk draped it across his hands in the store, he imagined it curving around Bucky’s neck like a warm caramel ribbon.

Bucky’s voice lowered to a whisper and his breathing picked up. “Please Stevie”, he begged, his eyes looking hazy already, “will you put it on me?”

When Steve lifted the collar from it’s box, he could feel the power in it; just dangling in his hand he could feel it, and he wasn’t nervous anymore. He still felt tipsy, and Bucky still looked tipsy, but there was no fear. Climbing back to lean against the quilted headboard, Steve gave Bucky an order. Adrenaline surged through his body when he commanded, “come sit on my lap.”

Christmas morning arrived and Bucky’s face lit up like he’d gotten exactly what he wanted under their tinsel covered evergreen tree. He bounced over and slid into his lap, his excitement overflowing onto Steve’s thighs and coloring them both with candy cane stripes. Despite the sugar coated energy, Steve felt the need to go slow; to brush Bucky’s long chocolate hair over his creamy shoulders and lightly run his fingertips along his perfectly symmetrical clavicles. He had a deep desire to take his time and allow the soft leather to feather against Bucky’s sternum as he steered it upwards. He felt only amazement as goose bumps rose in the collar’s path, demonstrating its power with a faintly textured physical reaction. Steve looked at the empty expanse of his boy’s long neck, remembering the joy he experienced in front of the library; falling back into the memory of nine gentle kisses pressed against Bucky’s empty skin before securing each cuff. Placing the same tender kiss on the beating artery in Bucky’s neck he breathed him in, and knew with absolute certainty he wanted to possess him completely. “Bucky, are you sure?”

“Yes”, he moaned, eyes entranced by the dangling leather. “Please.”

Steve watched his own hands bending the collar around Bucky’s neck and deftly adjusting the buckle. They looked so sure in their movements, exemplifying how Steve felt inside. When he leaned back to look, he was overcome. It took a moment for language to return because his Bucky looked perfect; perfectly _his_. Cerulean blue eyes radiating nothing but pleasure, the haze filling his irises and giving Steve permission to pilot them into this unknown world. Bucky was following him so willingly and Steve just wanted to do right by him. He finally let his hands slide down to touch Bucky’s tight red underwear, his perfectly tiny, silly, white heart underwear, then ran his hands underneath the band to squeeze his ass. God he loved his ass, the feel of it, the roundness of it, the muscles giving it shape. Delicious. Bucky rode him there, dancing to an imaginary beat until Steve finally let himself go. The collar giving him permission to grab Bucky by the waist and push him off to the side.

“Hands and knees sweetheart. Now.” God, the power in that!

Steve lost some time, until he found himself looking at something he didn’t even know he wanted. Now that he’d seen it he knew it would be something he craved: peppermint ice cream in October, eggnog spiked with Bailey’s in March, and reindeer shaped sugar cookies with rainbow sprinkles in July. Bucky was posed perfectly on all fours with his hair cascading forward onto the bed; his collar visible from behind and...holy shit, Steve was gonna pass out from that perfect picture alone.

His brain was feeling very Christmassy, and the thought of all those sweets was making him a little nauseous. Bucky was rolling the muscles of his back in slow waves, making his ass tilt up and down ever so slightly, and Steve thought maybe Bucky was the one giving gifts. He’d never seen Bucky like this before... who was he kidding? He’d never seen _anyone_ from this perspective before, and he didn’t even know he _wanted_ to. But he wanted to...and he wanted. He felt his hands gliding up and over the band of Bucky’s perfectly naughty underwear and he snapped it three times before slowly pulling them down. God did Bucky let out a delicious moan as the red cotton dropped to his knees.

“Stay right there baby. I just want to look at you. Shit, you’re so…” Steve took a deep breath and he felt dizzy. Seeing him bent over and exposed like that? Trusting him like that? Everything was clicking into place in his mind, a thousand gold and silver presents stacked perfectly in tall towers, and written neatly on each tag was ‘For Bucky, I love you.’

“Please stay right there Buck. You look perfect.”

Steve fumbled around to find the lube in the pocket of his backpack and his inability to find it quickly was a subtle reminder that he was still a little drunk. But Bucky was right there in front of him, and Steve was imagining tying a soft red velvet bow around his cock, and he could see _everything_. He thought about number three on Bucky’s Naughty Santa list: endless spankings, and smirked. Oh yeah, Santa could put that one under the tree first. Steve crawled up behind him and let his tongue trace a long wet line. His moans grew desperate when Steve pressed his tongue deeper inside than he had under the bridge, and Bucky suddenly dropped to his elbows.

Steve stopped immediately and pulled back his open palm. The ravens materialized in an explosion of silver glitter on either side of Bucky, their feet curling around the headboard and ripping into the cream fabric with their talons. He froze…

Why were they here? It made no sense. Why were their inky feathers contaminating their Christmas cheer? He was about to lower his hand, because he must be doing something wrong, when he noticed something strange. Their beady eyes weren’t solid red anymore and the anxiety their presence invoked was missing. Squinting, Steve saw radial swirls of white in their eyes and sucked in a breath when he realized their peppermint configuration.

Wow, he must be drunker than he thought if his harbingers of fear were down for some festive ass spanking. They tipped their heads and tiny little elf hats appeared at jaunty angles on their little bird heads. Huh, that was so weird. He blinked a few times and decided it really wasn’t _that_ much weirder than seeing black ravens flying around and watching him on a daily basis, elf hats or no elf hats. At least this time he wasn’t getting the shit kicked out of him.

Bucky pushed his ass back towards Steve’s thighs and he didn’t care anymore; feathered voyeurs be damned. Perhaps he’d been looking at them all wrong and their peppermint gaze told him about his tomorrows; harbingers of truth and prophecy instead of fear and death. He imagined his raised right wrist wrapped in glittering green and red striped bows and if he pictured a red and white Santa hat on his own head, nobody had to know.

When his hand made contact Bucky’s ass shook and he wailed, “oh my fucking god! Oh, yeah... Stevie.”

Steve almost came right then.

“I told you not to move, so I’m reminding you to listen. Back up on your hands.”

Steve watched his hand come down three more times on Bucky’s white skin, turning it a delicious shade of bubblegum pink. He’d never spanked anything! Ever! And he was pretty sure Bucky had never been spanked, although with Clint anything was possible. But both of them were rock hard and Bucky was moaning, and there were a few Russian words starting to slip out of his mouth, so Steve kept right on going. “Two more baby. Ready?”

Bucky moaned outwardly and Steve could see the vibration in his shoulders from holding his own weight. After he cracked two more spankings across his beautiful ass, Steve worked his fingers inside with one hand and reached up to loop his middle finger under the top of the collar. When he pulled Bucky back hard onto his fingers he mumbled, “Da, oh fucking hell Steve. What the fuck? Mmm, so good,” and a few other things that Steve couldn’t understand.

The vertebra in Bucky’s spine rippled with each tug, and the dimples above his ass rose and fell with each release, and Steve couldn’t wait anymore. He wrapped himself over Bucky’s back and added some of his own weight to the position. Bucky struggled to hold the extra pounds, but he did. Even though his arms were shaking the entire way down, he held firm. Steve kissed his ear, and his neck, and his vibrating scapulas before whispering, “drop your arms baby.”

The instant reaction was so sudden that Steve almost lost his balance. He felt drunk. Drunker that the actual level of drunk he was experiencing, and Bucky had his face pillowed against the puffy blue comforter and was starting to going under. Steve had done his homework, because he was a responsible student, and he’d learned the signs. Steve let his tongue trace over each bone in his spine, over his tailbone, down to every secret part of him until he was ready to take him. Holy shit, he was about to claim him. More than the first time, differently than this morning, this was claiming Bucky on a whole different level. Steve’s heart was in his throat as he slipped his black underwear off and settled back on his haunches; just looking, watching, listening.

“Sweetheart, are you okay?”

“Mmmm hmmm. Pozhaluista. Please, I need you.”

Steve smiled and felt a weird kind of pride. Maybe he should make him wait just a little longer so he could really appreciate every part. His own cock was rock hard, and he still couldn’t believe he got to put it inside of Bucky. He couldn’t wrap his head around it. And god, there was something about Bucky’s position. It was crazy. How long would he wait? How long would he present himself to Steve like that? Yeah, he was gonna pass out.

Touching the small of Bucky’s back, Steve let them connect. Bucky mumbled, “da, yes”, and his own mind agreed. As he watched himself disappear into his...his _submissive_ , his mind thought ‘yes’ too. Yes, this was exactly where he wanted to be. Yes, he was in love. Yes, he’d take such good care of him. And yes, the ravens had led them to a swirling future where their beaks dropped a halo of mistletoe around Bucky’s head to emphasize their signs. When Steve couldn’t tell where he ended and Bucky began, he swore he smelled peppermint floating in the air and he could taste the crispness on his tongue. Foreign words started pouring out of Bucky’s mouth and he knew he had him. He looped three fingers under the soft collar and set a slow pace, alternating pulling back hard and pushing deep, with releasing his neck and teasing. Beneath him Bucky was a moaning, writhing, beautiful disaster and Steve loved everything about it. Everything.

Grabbing the collar hard he towed Bucky vertical against his chest. It was clear they were both close to coming so Steve gave Bucky another glistening gift. Entangling his fingers in Bucky’s knotted hair he tugged his head backwards against his shoulder and Steve held him there, unable to move as Steve wrapped his other hand around Bucky’s cock and pounded into him. When he made love to Bucky, he hadn’t moved like this...he hadn’t fucked him hard. Feeling his body moving of its own accord, his pace almost vicious, he snarled, “I want you to come with me Buck. I’m gonna come so deep inside of you and I want you to wait until you feel it.”

Bucky moaned low and drawn out and Steve felt him getting unsteady in his grip. Releasing his hair Steve quickly threw an arm around his ribcage, crushing him against his body and fucking him, really _fucking_ him, until he couldn’t stop himself.

“Jesus Bucky. God, _now_ baby.”

Their eight chambered heart seized, an authentic la petite death, as they came simultaneously. He could live here, on the edge of some undefined afterlife, as long as he had Bucky Barnes. Steve was lost somewhere, drifting happily among sugar plum fairies and snowflakes, when Bucky’s body went totally lax. Steve barely managed to catch him before he crumpled completely, somehow managing to twist his body around so he landed flat on his back. What the…? He looked down and oh shit... Shit! Shit Shit Shit Shit Shit!!!

Bucky was totally limp, not focusing on anything, and he was doing the Russian thing really quietly. Shit! Steve felt dizzy himself and he had to remember what to do, because he’s the boss! He’s the boss! Where were his jeans!? He needed his phone! He jumped off the bed, searching desperately for his pants, because he was prepared! He was a responsible Dom! Dammit, he was Bucky’s _Dom_ now and he couldn’t find his fucking phone!  

He finally found his pants, and his phone was stuck inside one of the legs, and he almost dropped it when he yanked it out, and Bucky was moaning and...shit. Shit! Photos, c’mon, he saved this. He saved it! Somehow he got his camera open and found what he was looking for.

Trying to read, and trying to breathe, he tried really hard to get his shit together. He can do this! He’s got everything under control…

*****

 

This pull out couch _was_ comfortable, Tony didn’t lie, and Clint and Scott managed to destroy it with cookie crumbs, blueberry muffin wrappers, orange Cheeto dust, and rogue Cheerios in a little over an hour. The munchie explosion was totally Clint’s fault; he’d own that. After everyone else went into their _actual_ bedrooms to fuck, he busted out his bowl and got them both totally baked. Anything to help Clint ignore the various National Geographic mating calls coming at him from all directions. Anything to dull the sound of Bucky’s moans pouring through the vents. Anything to make him stop thinking about Nat and how much he wished she was here. He shoved another Chips Ahoy in his mouth and threw one at Scott’s head.

There’s no doubt Clint was surprised last night when Nat told him he wasn’t her first. Maybe he assumed Bucky would have shared that kind of information? But the more she talked about it, the more Clint got the feeling Bucky didn’t have a clue either. Clint always thought Bucky and Nat were psychically linked or something; talking without words and her freakish ability to calm him down by petting his hair, so keeping a big secret like losing her virginity from her brother was weird. Clint grabbed another cookie and thought about how hurt Bucky would be when he found out.

Nat wasn’t Clint’s first either, but she _was_ the first girl that mattered to him. He knew it was a dick move to have sex with someone he didn’t care about, but after shit went down with Bucky at the end of sophomore year, Clint made some really dumbass decisions.

He needed milk for this cookie, but Tony didn’t have any milk; just weird juice smoothie things, glass bottles of fizzy water with names he couldn’t pronounce, fancy seasonal beer, expensive champagne and Coke. So Coke it was, at four in the morning. Between the caffeine, Tony yelling weird shit, and Steve and Bucky’s porno hour, he was never gonna get any sleep. At least Sam had the common courtesy to keep his activities with Chloe on the down low. He was classy like that. Stark’s obnoxious laugh echoed down the hall and Scott shook his head through a cloud of smoke. Maybe he was thinking the same thing. Clint just shrugged because these chocolate chip cookies were delicious.

He might not remember the first girl’s name, but he sure as hell remembers the train of thought that made him stick his dick in her. It went like this: Damn right he wasn’t gay! He liked girls and Bucky fucking knew that! How dare he crawl up his body and look at Clint with those big blue peepers like he loved him!? How dare he use that goddamn sex stare!? Damn him for fucking everything up!

He’d been pissed and it sent him off the rails. Now that more than a year had passed he knew it was something else too. He hadn’t fully sussed it out until Steve entered the picture, but watching Bucky with Steve he realized things might not be so clear cut after all. He fired up his bowl again, because now he was venturing into dangerous territory.

Bucky acting like a total dick earlier made it obvious that things weren’t crystal clear on his end either. There was more to it than whatever shit went down with Rumlow. There was more to it than Bucky losing his mind because he was afraid to deal. And there was definitely more to it than Clint having sex with his sister. Lots more. Staring across that limo, both of them ready to kick the shit out of each other, Clint realized Bucky would _never_ completely forgive him. He threw his his knives at Clint because he wouldn’t dare throw them at Steve.  

Clint blew a plume of smoke towards the tall ceiling. This must be some high quality weed to _finally_ make him realize what was going on after all this time. He pulled another hit into his lungs because he needed a minute to fully admit it to himself. Bucky didn’t know how to deal so he picked the easy target; the target that would always take the hits because it felt so fucking guilty. That truth right there?...it was absolute. Clint would always take it. When Bucky lashed out with his snapping gum and perfectly pointed words, Clint knew their wounds hadn’t fully healed and probably never would.

The night Clint told Bucky to stop, told him _everything_ had to stop, he couldn’t sleep. Honestly, he didn’t sleep most of that horrible week. He’d never avoided Bucky, not once since they were twelve years old. He’d never given a second thought to hugging him when he was upset or wrestling him to the floor when Bucky kicked his ass at Mario Kart. He never stayed mad at him for more than a few hours...but he avoided him after that night. He couldn’t deal with devastation on Bucky’s face after Clint whispered ‘stop’ against his lips, and everytime he looked at him that was the only thing he could see.

Two uncomfortable days later, Clint met some brunette chick from a school in Lenox Hill at his archery tournament. She had wavy brown hair that barely touched her shoulders and strong arms from pulling back her bow. When he fucked her in the bathroom he tried not to think about Bucky, but her hair was wavy and brown and he kept thinking about gentle bites around his nipple piercings and a soft tongue running under the chain on his neck. He was so angry, so fucking angry, and he’d turned the girl to face the wall before shoving his hands in her hair as he came into the condom. He needed to get the hell out of there. He didn’t even try to make her come. He’d just lost his virginity, to a girl whose name he couldn’t even remember, while imagining he was with someone else.

It didn’t help.

Six days later, Clint talked Skinner into sneaking out and scooping him up to go the old bowling alley in Greenwood. It took him twenty minutes to pick up a punk girl with a tongue ring and a stupid dragon tattoo on her shoulder. She said she was twenty-three and Clint couldn’t even remember her name as he was fucking her in the back of Skinner’s car; he honestly didn’t care. To make himself come he had to cover that ugly tattoo with his hand and look out the window towards the neon lights of Melody Lanes.

When Skinner finally found them in the parking lot he was disgusted, and pissed, and screamed ‘get out of my fucking car’ before peeling out and leaving him there. It was after midnight, and for some crazy reason the girl wanted his phone number. He gave her a fake number only because he left his subway pass at home and needed to bum money off her for the fare. Otherwise he wouldn’t have pretended he gave a shit.

The whole time he waited for the late night train to Brooklyn he sat on the disgusting tile floor with the garbage and the rats and hated himself. When the rats started scampering around the edges of the station, sticking their noses into rotting food wrappers and empty bags of chips, he felt like he was with the right species.

It didn’t help.

When he and Bucky finally started getting back to normal Clint didn’t tell him any of it. He convinced a very pissed Skinner that it would hurt Bucky more if he knew, so he begrudgingly kept the secret. Eight days later, instead of telling Bucky the truth, Clint just let their feet start touching again when they watched movies and letting his arm wrap around Bucky’s shoulders when Daisy cracked a joke at lunch. He let himself laugh and smile when they smoked weed on the rooftop and tried to let them go back to how things were before...well almost like before.

It helped.

It would come up sometimes, when they were chillin’ after school or binge watching Netflix. Bucky would make fun of him for being a virgin and Clint would say ‘dude you are too’! Bucky would laugh and throw out his favorite comeback: ‘the difference is I only know _three_ gay guys and I already made out with one of them, so my success rate is going strong at thirty-three percent. You know _hundreds_ of chicks and haven’t managed to touch one, so that ratio means you’re pathetic’.

It was a really good comeback, if it were true. Clint always _felt_ pathetic at that moment, because pretending he didn’t fuck two girls, whose names he honestly never knew, instead of letting himself love his best friend back _was_ pathetic. He wasn’t gay; he was just open minded or something. He loved girls and he certainly felt right with Nat. But listening to Bucky moaning and hearing Steve’s body pounding against him...it made him feel stuff; stuff that he didn’t fucking understand! All he knew for sure was only _Bucky_ messed with his head. It was just _him_.

Scott was starting to nod off, and Clint was still wide awake. Fuck it, he packed another bowl and felt relieved that at least Tony and Macauley finally shut up.

Clint couldn’t tell Bucky any of it. Just like he wouldn’t tell him Nat slept with some college guy in her ballet class over the summer. Just like he wouldn’t tell him that until Natasha, he couldn’t stop thinking about Bucky every time he kissed a girl, or got a handjob from Kelly at Starbucks, or even sometimes when he jacked off in his room. But he had Nat now, and she was perfect and he knew they could be something great. Last night _felt_ like his first time because he really cared about her and he actually wanted to look at _her_ face when he fucked her. And for the first time he wasn’t thinking about wavy brown hair when he came.

But the sounds coming out of that bedroom were out of control, and Clint was back to wondering if Steve’s fingers were tangled in Bucky’s brown hair as he fucked him. He lit his bowl and told himself that this shit had to stop.

He kicked Scott’s foot because he didn’t think he should be the only one suffering, and the poor guy jolted upright. “What? What time is it? What?”

“Dude, pass me those Ruffles.”

“Man, are you _still_ smoking?! Did you just wake me up for chips? Rude. And really, as a friend... we are friends now right?...as a friend I’ve gotta say, I know they say weed’s never killed anybody, but that much _can’t_ be good for you.” Scott grabbed the bag of chips and jammed his hand inside. “Also, you should know that friends don’t wake friends up when they want Ruffles. So I’m not gonna pass you these Ruffles.” He started mumbling, and chips started falling out of his mouth. “Ge your ow Rffls.”

“Ruffles hog!” Clint threw the Chips-a-hoy package and missed Scott by a mile, launching at least a dozen cookies across the room as it flew threw the air.

“Is that what you meant to do?” Scott giggled and fell over into the cushions, which made Clint giggle and fall over into the cushions. Okay, maybe he was having a _little bit_ of a good time.

It helped.

They were perfectly happy giggling, watching the underrated chick version of Ghostbusters and destroying Stark’s furniture with their epic munchies madness, when suddenly... naked chaos! A door slammed open, scaring the shit out of him and making Scott spill the entire bag of Ruffles everywhere. Clint would have bitched about his chips but they were completely forgotten the second a completely naked Steve Rogers flew past them into the open kitchen. Steve shoved his head into the refrigerator, and Clint was honestly impressed by the sheer frenzy of the ‘naked dick flopping, white ass in the air’ spectacle.  

Scott mouthed ‘what the fuck?’, and they both cracked up.

When a naked dude starts violently shoving things around, making godawful clanging noises, and saying ‘shit’ more times than Clint could count, it was probably cause for concern. Although wildly amusing, Clint really didn’t need the in depth view of Rogers’ asscrack and balls so he jumped over the back of the couch to offer assistance.

“Dude, you need some help or something?”

Steve swung around from the fridge so fast that his dick audibly slapped against his thigh. Clint had some very uncomfortable thoughts about where that dick had just been and he was _not_ going there...not...going...there. He needed to block that shit out of his mind.

“Oh my god Clint!” Steve was one-hundred percent panicking: racing words, definitely not sober, wide eyed, breathing fast, running around, the whole nine yards. Except he was doing it all naked. “Clint! It’s Bucky! It said I need sugar and I shouldn’t leave him, but I left him, and I’m horrible, and I need sugar!”

Scott’s face looked like his psyche was being scarred by the huge swinging dick in the room. Seriously, Clint understood the feeling, because that shit right there would give anybody a complex. He had absolutely no idea what the hell Steve was talking about, but he seemed dead set on the sugar thing so Clint just rolled with it.

He wanted to help.

“Dude, I’ll get the sugar. You go back in there. Okay? Can you handle that?” Clint knew he sounded calm anything coming out of his mouth was counteracted by the bootylicious tank top he nabbed from Tony after the club. Sir-mix-a-lot declaring ‘Baby got Back’ on top of a huge ass was a little too much for Shocked Steve to handle because every ounce of his attention got sucked into the juicy booty. “Steve! Go! I’ll be right there”.

Clint didn’t know what was the hell was wrong, but considering Steve was buckass naked he figured it must be a sex mishap. Digging around in the fridge and rifling through the shit Steve knocked over, he landed on a platter of chocolate dipped strawberries and a glass of orange juice. Steve said sugar; this was sugar. He peeled back the cellophane and damn, these looked fucking expensive!

“Sorry Tony”, he laughed as he walked past Scott, “I’m taking the strawberries…you can afford more.” Poor Scott was still in big-dick-shock and only managed to repeat ‘what the fuck?’ as Clint headed for the hall. Yeah, permanent ego damage there.

He could hear Panicked Steve panicking, so after a quick internal pep talk Clint heaved the tray over his head like a waiter and turned the corner announcing, “special delivery.”

He had no idea how to help.

The chaos he walked into with his delicious tray of stolen strawberries was...really something. He took a sip of the orange juice because shit just got real. Steve was hauling blankets out of the closet and frantically piling them on top of Bucky; way too many blankets. And Bucky? Well he looked totally out of it and was shivering and mumbling...in Russian.

Naked Steve ran up to him, almost knocking the tray out of his hands, and started talking _way_ too fast. “It said keep him warm! Oh my god, I fucked up so bad! Oh my God!” He shoved his phone right up in Clint’s face. “Here, look! Look, I saved this when I was doing sex research.”

Clint’s brain jumped on board Scott’s ‘what the fuck?’ train, because what the fuck is sex research!? What the fuck was Steve shoving in his face!? Clint squinted at the screen and read: ‘BDSM basics: Subspace Aftercare’.

He needed a minute.

Clint picked out the juiciest looking strawberry, with thick dark chocolate and skinny ribbons of white frosting drizzled on top, and shoved it in his mouth. Oh man, these were delicious! Perfect sweet fruit contrasted with delicately cracking chocolate. Sooo good….

Steve was still shoving the phone in his face, shaking it like ‘hurry up, hurry up, hurry up’, but Clint needed a sugar boost of his own. He was out of his depth here...sooo out of his depth. If he thought he was over his head dealing with Depressed Steve on the roof he was wrong...dead wrong. Naked, drunk, panicking, sex researching Steve was sooo much worse.

All he could do was calmly chew his deliciously expensive strawberry and read over the screen, because Clint’s a chill person; good under pressure, good at calming people down, and cool, the coolest really, so he could handle whatever the fuck this was. He scanned the main bullet points: 1. Warmth  2. Don’t leave them alone 3. Sugar 4. Comfort  5. Calm and in control.

Well, Steve was sucking at this.

How on Earth were these idiots such a mess without him? He ate another strawberry, this one had chopped walnuts stuck to pink chocolate, and prepped for ‘operation calm everyone the fuck down’.

“Okay Steve, let’s take a deep breath here.”

Steve was staring wildly at Bucky who was mumbling in some serious Russian, low rolling accent and everything. Over the years Bucky taught him a few phrases, but this wasn’t ‘where’s the bathroom’, ‘good evening’, or ‘fuck you’. This was ‘my airplane crashed in Siberia and after hiking through the frozen wilderness for two days straight I finally stumbled across a remote village where the inhabitants didn’t even know about the invention of electricity’ Russian. It was freaking him out.

But instead of letting Panicked Steve catch that vibe, he swallowed his third strawberry and put a hand on his naked shoulder. “We’ve got this bro. Calm down. Okay? Can you be chill for Bucky?”

Steve nodded, wide eyed, and didn’t look chill at all. On the list of weird situations Clint and Bucky had gotten themselves into this would go down in history as number one. That includes the time they got lost in Central Park trying to find the hot dog stand and Bucky rescued a baby duck from a sewer drain. Not only did he insist on carrying it around with them looking for it’s ‘mommy’, but he also named it ‘Francisco’ for no logical reason. When Phil finally found them, Bucky was so pissed that his dad made him to put Francisco in the lake that he pouted for a week, mourning the loss of his beloved duckling. They never did get hot dogs.

This also surpassed the time Bucky convinced him to dress up as Kurt Cobain for Daisy’s Halloween Party. There were long discussions and promises that Bucky was going as Dave Grohl but he showed up dressed as Courtney Love; complete with smeared makeup, crooked tiara, ripped babydoll dress, and a plastic baby with name tag that said ‘Hi my name is: Frances Bean’ stuck on its forehead. Skinner kept sneaking up behind Clint to whisper ‘you smell like teen spirit’, ‘would you like some pennyroyal tea?’, and ‘is your heart box shaped?’ while Bucky cracked up in his ripped fishnets.

It was a close race, but this even beat the time Clint found a pair of rusty handcuffs in the alley behind Southside Guitars. In his defense he thought they were fake and what does a sixteen-year-old guy do with fake handcuffs? Grabs his best friend of course, and shackles them together around Clint’s headboard; his _unbreakable_ solid oak headboard. It was funny for roughly one minute until they realized they were very real. Clint’s mom had to call her less than upstanding Uncle Marty and convince him to drive over from Jersey to pick the lock. Since Uncle Marty didn’t show for five hours they had to hold empty Mountain Dew bottles up to one other’s dicks so they could piss. Bucky, of course, laughed so hard that he peed all over Clint’s hand and all over the bed; the bed they were shackled to.

But this scene right here? This took top prize.

He took a super deep breath because he knew what he had to do. Bucky needed him; he didn’t need mad Clint, or conflicted Clint, or messed up in the head Clint...no. He needed the Clint that took whatever Bucky threw at him and rolled with it, the Clint that washed out cuts and put ice on bruises, the Clint that tag teamed with Sam Wilson to help Steve, and the Clint that always tried to put Bucky ahead of his own feelings, loving him no matter what.

So he set the strawberries on the nightstand and formulated a plan. It was a crazy plan, and he was glad he was high as a kite because otherwise he wouldn’t be gutsy enough to pitch it to Naked Steve. “I know what to do Steve. You might not like it but it’s gonna work. Don’t kill me.”

Clint very calmly took off his ‘my anaconda don’t want none unless you got buns hun’ shirt and his sweatpants, keeping a close eye on Naked Steve to make sure he wasn’t gonna attack. Embarrassingly he wasn’t wearing underwear, commando was kinda his thing, but Bucky was still shivering so Clint had to go all in; take off your pants and you’re a sex hero.

Steve’s mouth was obviously on the floor, which was to be expected, but Clint wasn’t ready for him to scream, “what the fuck Barton!?” and lunge at him. Naked sword fight? No thank you. Clint had to admit Steve would win. Seriously, damn.

Jumping back towards the bed, Clint tried to keep things under control. “Steve! Chill! Point five: ‘calm and in control”! That stopped Angry Naked Steve long enough for Clint to pull back the ridiculous pile of blankets on top of Cupca… Shit.

That fucking sucked.

He couldn’t go there right now...and Bucky really was shivering so he tried to get Steve’s ass in gear. “Skin to skin contact dude. Didn’t you see Twilight? I'm Jacob right now, and Bucky’s Bella, and you don’t have to be Edward cuz he's not as cool as Jacob. We can _both_ be Jacob. Get it?”

Clint threw four blankets onto the floor then pulled back the comforter all the way so he could climb in next to Bucky. As expected he was totally naked except for...cat socks?

Cat socks!!!?

If he could maintain his chill and yell ‘Cat Socks!?’ at the top of his lungs he totally would! Because seriously!!? Seriously!? But he kept it together and climbed behind Bucky to be a big warm werewolf spoon. The sticky something all over Bucky’s stomach wasn’t part of Clint’s plan, and that sticky something getting all over his hand and arm definitely wasn’t part of the plan either. But he’s a good bro...the best bro really...keep it together...so he moved Bucky’s brown hair...keep it together...so he could breath warm air on back of his neck and jesus fucking christ! Why the fuck was there a goddamn collar around his neck!!!? A goddamn fucking leather collar! What the fuck were these two doing!? It took every ounce of his quickly dwindling chill to stop himself from screaming, ‘A leather collar with Cat Socks!? What the Fuck!?’, but he’s chill, he’s cool. He could keep it together. If Bucky was having a sex emergency, and his studly new boyfriend was a panicking mess, Clint would still come through for him! Cat socks, kinky collar, and come-arm be damned, Clint _will_ fucking stay chill!!!

Now that he actually had his body wrapped around Bucky it was a scary how violently he was shivering. Clint twisted his legs over Bucky’s and pressed himself as close as he could get; spooning like he’s never spooned before. “Steve...hello? Can you get your shit together and climb in on the other side?”

Because Steve’s an idiot, he just stood there.

Clint’s chill tank was on empty. “Steve! Snap out of it right now! Bucky needs you! Get your ass in the fucking bed!”

“Oh my god. Clint! Is he okay? I’m such an asshole!” He started naked pacing again and there was no more chill.

“Steve! Shut the fuck up and get in! I swear to god if you don’t move your ass right now I’m gonna kill you. Be Jacob!”

Finally, Steve listened. Finally!!! Squeezing in on the other side, he wrapped his arm around Bucky’s waist and his hand ended up on Clint’s stomach...which was fucking ridiculous. How the hell did Steve not notice that the back of his hand was gently rubbing Clint’s happy trail?

But this was a sex emergency so Clint pretended it wasn’t happening, which was a real challenge. He calmly started talking to Bucky; whispering soothing words and reassurances like he used to do when Bucky was upset or hurt. It took a long second but Steve finally caught on.

“Baby,” Steve whispered against Bucky’s lips, “it’s ok. Come back to me sweetheart.”

And damn, if that wasn’t the sweetest shit Clint had ever heard. Points earned for Captain Panic. Steve put his forehead against Bucky’s and kept saying sweet, syrupy, soothing things while gently rubbing Bucky’s back, and Clint’s happy trail by default. He wanted to facepalm so bad.

Finally, after a few scary Russian filled minutes, Bucky started to sound more American and almost stopped shivering.

“Steve, strawberries.”

And that’s how, after saving Bucky and Steve from their BDSM sex emergency, Clint ended up hand-feeding his best friend stolen chocolate dipped strawberries and helping him sit up so Steve could hold the glass of orange juice to his lips; because Clint’s a good bro...the best bro really. And that’s how, because he was too warm and too lazy to move, he found his nose buried deep in Bucky’s wavy brown hair as he snuggled up to both of these idiots and finally fell asleep.

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First off, THANK YOU for your comments! I LOVE THEM! I've really enjoyed talking about this story with you guys and have integrated a lot of your awesome thoughts into my writing! Special shout out to Dandesun for their fantastic insight about Steve's Ravens and for putting into words the Clint/Bucky dynamic I was trying to capture. THANK YOU! Keep the song suggestions coming too!
> 
> TRIVIA- Comment the answers and I shall send you virtual goodies!  
> 1\. Why is the idea of Bucky with a moustache funny (hint: ice skating)?  
> 2\. What's the connection between Buffy the Vampire Slayer and our Avenger friends?  
> -Opinion: Angel or Spike?  
> 3\. Why's it funny that I included The Cure 'Disintegration' reference when Tony was making fun of Clint's eyeliner in the limo?  
> BONUS: I'm basing Macauley and Chloe on two specific characters from a movie? Any ideas?
> 
> CHAPTER 13 TRIVIA ANSWERS:  
> 1\. Monkeys stealing beer? If you google 'Drunk Monkeys' you will come across a video about a group of monkeys that hang out near a resort and have become alcoholics. They run up and steal people's drinks and get wasted all day. Its one of my favorite things.  
> 2."Contaminating Steve's lungs with poppies" referred to both the The Wizard of Oz and the contents of Tony's flask. Opiates are derived from poppies.  
> 3\. When Bucky mentioned 'Big Brother' when talking about Trump Tower he was referencing the book '1984' by George Orwell.
> 
> CHAPTER 14 PLAYLIST:  
> 1\. Deadmau5-I remember  
> 2\. Flosstradamus & NGHTMRE-Lighters Up  
> 3\. Marshmallow- Ritual (feat. Wrabel)  
> 4\. HeRobust-Skurt Reynolds  
> 5\. Flosstradamus & TroyBoi- Soundclash  
> 6\. RL Grime-Core  
> 7\. Flosstradamus & Yellow Claw- Pillz  
> 8\. DJ Snake-Propaganda  
> 9\. Flosstradamus- Moshpit (Casino Remix)  
> 10\. Bassnectar- The Matrix (ft. D.U.S.T)  
> 11\. Bassnectar & G Jones- Mind Tricks  
> 12\. Bassnectar- Unlimited Combinations  
> 13\. Flume- Enough (ft. Pusher T)  
> 14\. Martin Garrix & Bebe Rexha- In the name of love
> 
> Come visit me on my other sites to see all my other Stucky and Marvel art, or to just come say hi!!!! HUGS!
> 
>  
> 
> [Instagram](https://www.instagram.com/jessielucidart/)
> 
>  
> 
> [Tumblr](http://lucidnancyboy.tumblr.com)
> 
>  
> 
> [YouTube](https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCjADIMzQjvmnAs-nGoSG0JQ)


	15. The Eyewall

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! The answers to last chapter's trivia and the new playlist are in the endnotes. Enjoy :)

                                                 

 

“Who stole my strawberries!?” 

Tony popped up from the fridge and stared at Sam like he had all the answers. Not only did Sam  _ not _ have all the answers, he didn’t give a flying fuck about Tony’s strawberries and he was completely done with all the drama; D-O-N-E done. Shoving the coffee pot into place he tried to pretend Tony wasn’t annoyingly rapping his knuckles on the counter to get Sam to look at him. Look at me! Look at me! Look what I can do! Can’t a guy just make the coffee, drink the coffee, and take a steaming hot mug of the coffee back to the beautiful young woman sleeping in his bed?

But no, Tony abruptly stopped rapping and pointed an accusatory finger at the couch. “I bet Glenn Danzig devoured them, used ‘em as a palate cleanser during his late night satanic baby eating ritual!” He stormed towards the couch in his silky red robe, because Tony in a silky red robe and boxers was typical Stark fashion, and peered over the back. “Hey, where the hell’s Clint!?”

A lump started shifting under the blankets and a mop of brown hair popped out the top. “He disappeared with naked Steve around three. It was awful”, Scott mumbled.

“Come again?” Sam was positive he heard that wrong,  _ please _ let him have heard that wrong. His coffee wasn’t brewing fast enough which, considering he needed at least two cups before he even  _ considered _ thinking about what Scott just said, was really pissing him off.

Milk. He needed milk and everything was knocked over in the fridge and Tony was still bitching about strawberries and he just wanted to tell him to ‘shut the fuck up’. Did strawberries really matter when Steve was running around naked? Truth be told, with the massive amount of bullshit exploding everywhere for the past week, Sam really shouldn't be surprised that Steve finally lost his damn mind. He shouldn’t be, but c’mon man...what the hell? It was time for Sam to bust out the disappointed face and sit Steve’s ass down for a serious one on one conversation. How the hell was there no milk? He just wanted the damn coffee.

Sam shook his head and slammed the fridge because the only thing he wanted to do was crawl back in that soft bed and learn more about Chloe. But that simple dream wasn’t gonna happen because Steve’s out of control shit was splattering all over Tony’s strawberries, Scott’s peace of mind, and Sam’s dreams of morning coffee cuddles. Running around naked with Clint Barton at three o’clock in the morning was over the line.  

Scott pushed down the covers just below his chin and there was a...muffin wrapper?... stuck to the side of his head. “I don’t know guys. It was crazy. Like, I was high as fuck, cause Clint just kept smoking and smoking and smoking. Really, how can a kid can smoke that much and not pass out!? So we were good, watchin’ Ghostbusters, chillin’, then  _ boom! _ ... chaos!” He shot his arms out and started wildly waving them around; maybe to emphasize the chaos, maybe because he was a hyperactive spaz, maybe because he was still high? Sam sucked in a bunch of air and let out the world’s biggest sigh; a long suffering sigh that had been building up for three years. His damn coffee was finally ready and he sloshed it into two white mugs.  

Spazz’s voice was escalating and somehow, despite the increased flapping, the wrapper held firm. “Steve was yelling about sugar or something then all I could see was his ass. Really, his ass was everywhere! Like wow, so much ass. I mean, I see his ass all the time in the locker room but not like that. Definitely not like that. Then  _ Poof _ ! They were gone and I’m pretty sure your strawberries  _ Poofed _ with them.” Scott looked sheepish when he added, “I mean Steve was  _ sooo _ naked and I  _ was _ high as fuck, so I wasn’t really paying attention to what they took. It was confusing and crazy and overwhelming and I’m gonna hide under this blanket and never ever think about it again.”

Watching Scott throw the blankets back over his head, along with his wrapper parasite, Sam prayed he was smack dab in the middle of some surrealistic dream. Steve was his boy, his partner in crime, his teammate, his best friend, but this shit... this shit was next level. Being the most rational person in the room all the time?... a curse. Being the most mature person in the room most of the time?...it sucked.  He stared at his stupid black coffee and wondered if he could ninja past all the flailing and whining?

“Sam…” Tony stuck out his bottom lip. “I ordered them special; Godiva strawberries and chilled champagne to celebrate gettin’ busy with a dick; which _ totally _ happened by the way.” He flipped open his robe and winked which was god-awful. “Clearly, the owner of that dick... let’s refer to him as SuperMacaulay... deserves my sweet and bubbly treats, and I wasn’t talking about my dick in that particular sentence, I was talking about my _ fucking strawberries _ !”

Where the hell was the sugar? If those assholes took the mother fucking sugar into that room Sam was gonna lose it. Lose it! He was gonna throw down with Steve on Eight Mile and Livernois in front of the boarded up liquor store with bums cheering him on. Yanking open the cupboards he was searching for sugar _and_ the textbook normality of the days when Steve dated nice, sweet people like Peggy Carter... maybe sweet wasn’t the right word for Peggy...even keeled? Whatever. Paprika and Pepper toppled out as he shoved shit around and tried desperately to think about the good ol’ days filled with simple dates at the movies. Like the nice, normal, basic time when everyone went to ‘Batman V Superman’ and Steve held Peggy’s hand as they walked into the theater. That was so pleasant, delightful, and most importantly _cool._

Sam was running out of cupboards to toss and he  _ still _ couldn’t find the sugar. Slamming the last one shut unfortunately triggered the memory of Superman stupidly flooding the bathroom floor when he climbed into that tub to get busy with Lois Lane. Ezra had sucked a long slurp of his Coke Icy through his curly straw before he leaned over and yelled, ‘I bet Steve’s better in bed than Superman!’. Even in the dark Sam could see Steve turning bright red and Peggy screwing up her face. They all had a front row seats to the show when she snapped ‘if only that were true’ and dumped her entire bucket of butter drenched popcorn into Steve’s lap. As she stormed out the door Tony stage whispered ‘performance issues’ and Steve jumped out of his seat to yell, ‘shut the fuck up Tony!’.

They got kicked out.

Not simple.

Sam started tugging open drawers because there  _ had _ to be little packets of Raw Sugar or Equal somewhere! He’d jump for joy if he found a dusty pink packet of Sweet’n Low at this point! Ok, simpler times...nice basic dates...maybe the Ryan Adams concert in Central Park last June when Steve brought Jenny Schiffer from AP English? Peter packed a cooler full of amazing turkey sandwiches on rye, Pepper brought tons of blankets for everyone to sit on, and...no...that was the time Steve, and sadly Jenny, caught Tony getting a blow job from some girl with dreadlocks in the bushes.

There had been no second date for Steve and Jenny.

Not simple.

Sam was down to the bottom cupboards and Stark was still rambling. He was well aware that sugar wasn’t gonna magically appear in between the Comet and Windex but now it was the principle of the damn situation! Simpler times...maybe Sharon was the ticket? Sweet, kind, gentle Sharon Carter? For their first date Steve drove to pick her up like a nice normal guy, probably opened every door for her like a nice, normal gentleman, and brought her to Ezra’s ‘Back to School Poker Party’. Sam was so excited to eat the delicious oreo cookie cheesecake that he baked with his mama and Bruce had carefully lit twelve candles to celebrate their senior year. Simple. Sweet. Normal...oh perfect. Maybe a memory where Sharon Carter nicely carried his delicious homemade oreo cheesecake towards the table only to have Tony snatch it, raise it high in the air and shout ‘let them eat cheesecake!’ wasn’t the right choice to prove his point. Sam slammed the final cupboard shut just as hard as the cheesecake had slammed upside down onto the carpet after Tony dropped it backwards over his head. 

Nobody ate cheesecake and Sam wanted to riot.

Not simple.

Fine, he gave up. Sam gave up on the sugar, and the coffee, and cuddling, and resorted to internal sarcasm. Simpler times...how about Steve sitting on the floor of Sam’s room while they made color coded flashcards to study for their Chemistry final? There! Normal memory! He poured the coffee down the drain and dropped the mugs in the sink.

Things have never been simple. Less nudity maybe...excluding Tony... but never simple.

The yelling about strawberries continued, coffee was hopeless, and Scott kept muttering ‘shut up, shut up, shut up’ from his hiding spot. So the most responsible person in the room gave in...again. “Tony, take it down a notch, I’ll check it out. Will that make you shut the hell up?”

“Actually Sam”, Tony said in some sort of weird high pitched Disney voice and pranced around the counter, “that would make me the happiest real boy ever, especially if you find Strawberry Shortcake and make her return my beloved strawberry treats.”

It was always Sam.  _ He _ was always the one who got sent on the rescue missions. Every damn time. Can’t find Tony after he wanders off drunk at The Radiohead concert? Send Sam. Can’t find Scott after he got stuck in a cornfield maze? Send Sam. Can’t find Sharon after Steve dumped her? Send Sam. Can’t find Bucky when he ditches Kuzinski’s class to listen to Steve’s mixtape? No problem. Send Sam to ten different bathrooms to track his crazy ass down. Happy to help. He shoved past Tony and his silky robe and trudged down the hall. After all, why should missing strawberries be any different?

Sam slowly cracked the bedroom door and immediately spotted exhibit one: empty silver tray leaning on one of Steve’s shoes littered with strawberry stems and tiny chocolate pieces. Tony was gonna be so pissed. Sam should’ve left right then. Tony wanted to know what happened to his strawberries, Sam discovered what happened to his strawberries...case closed. But no, since nothing in Sam’s life can be nice and simple, he glanced up at the bed, and sweet baby jesus mother of god, why the hell were there  _ three _ naked people snuggled up, cozy as can be, in this mother fucking bed!?

_ Three _ !!!

Maybe Sam should’ve expected it; he’s a smart guy, insightful, pays attention...and after that shitstorm in the limo he should’ve known Clint and Bucky were more than best buddies. But watching Steve in the middle of that argument was mind boggling. It was obvious from the start that Bucky Barnes is dramatic, if his Yoda stand-up routine was anything to go on, so maybe shit like this was everyday life for this kid. Sam looked again, because apparently a gay threesome has the same effect as a ten car pileup on the freeway, and changed his mind immediately. This shit was fucked up, plain and simple.

What Sam  _ never _ would’ve expected was for Steve to get sucked into whatever the hell this is. How the hell does a guy make the leap from turning down Sharon Carter’s naive advances to fucking Bucky Barnes, and whatever the hell Clint Barton is, in the span of two weeks!?

“No.” Sam backed up slowly and scrawled a one-on-one intervention into his mental calendar: ‘Steve Rogers is a dumbass’ written in bright red Sharpie on today’s date. This shit wasn’t gonna fly. “Hell no.”

When he walked backwards passed the couch Scott mumbled, “don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

“Yeah, no shit.”

Tony was still freaking out in the kitchen, the only difference was Chloe and Macaulay were leaning against the counter watching with amusement. There went Sam’s charming coffee wake up...he was gonna kill Steve...but at least she smiled when he slid up next to her and kissed her lightly freckled cheek.

“Well?” Tony clapped his hands and pretended to box Sam’s stomach, which considering the ridiculous robe was strangely appropriate. “Our very special, and I mean  _ very _ special, new friends are waiting for news from Strawberryland….”

“I don’t know how to break this to you man, but the strawberries are long gone.”

Tony opened his mouth but Sam calmly held his hand up to silence him. “I know you’re gonna want to go all psycho about this, but I’m gonna  _ strongly _ recommend that you let this one slide.”

“But they were…”

Sam threw his hand up again and interrupted because no. Hell no! “Stop. I’m telling you, what I witnessed in that room damaged my kind and gentle soul. Imagining what happened with those strawberries is gonna make me never wanna eat strawberries again, and believe me, I  _ love  _ strawberries!  My mama makes strawberry rhubarb pie every Thanksgiving and I look forward to stuffing my face with that gooey goodness all year long. I think about the thick homemade whip cream, and the crust that flakes when you cut it, and the strawberries oozing onto the plate, and you’re  _ not _ gonna ruin my Thanksgiving pie. Understand? You need to forget your strawberries ever existed, find me some sugar for this goddamn coffee, pour everyone a glass of champagne and eat some mother fucking Pop Tarts. Cool?” Sam wrapped arm around Chloe’s waist and channeled Dwayne Johnson. “Cool.”

Macauley flipped his blond hair to the side and gave Sam a cheeky smile.  “How about some  _ strawberry  _ Pop Tarts?”

Sam almost choked on his champagne.

*****

 

Clint woke up. 

He woke up and was instantly confused.

He woke up flat on his back and felt too many hands.

He woke up and kept his eyes squeezed shut because there were too many hands and too many feet playing a raunchy game of Naked Twister all over his body.

He woke up and wondered how the hell he got himself into these fucked up situations with Bucky over and over and over.

Why not make everything worse and play a game of his own? A rousing game of ‘How many hands can I feel?’... just for shits and giggles. The last time Clint played Twister was at Daisy’s fifteenth birthday party and it was nothing like this. Skinner kicked everyone’s ass with his shocking superhuman flexibility and Clint still couldn’t figure out how the guy stretched under Bucky’s legs to get his right hand of the far green corner while his left toes stayed glued on the furthest diagonal red. But this was no goofy vintage themed party. There was no Cookie Monster cake that turned everyone’s tongue blue, there were no monkeys climbing up interlocking plastic arms, and no seven minutes in Heaven where they just stood in the dark laughing. This game was Rated E for extreme nudity, extreme morning wood, and accidental groping. Hasbro would be horrified.

Clint imagined a plastic yellow circle stamped over his right nipple and there was definitely a hand squarely on top, the pressure gently tugging on his new black nipple ring. It made his breath catch and he squeezed his eyes even tighter because dammit. Clint was gonna label this Hand #1.

He’d never woken up with an arm running under his neck before; definitely not one connected to a hand resting in the middle of a green circle on his shoulder. The fingertips were softly touching the spot where his bones connected and it felt...never mind, he couldn’t deal with how it felt...Clint was just gonna call it Hand #2.

The spinner landed on blue and more fingers slid under the comforter and crawled onto his left hip, tickling the perimeter of a blue circle and making the electric current charge in his stomach. Hand #3 was causing a serious problem.

Three hands, none of them his. Well shit.

To make things even worse, Foot #1 started wiggling on the yellow circle between Clint’s knees with soft cotton toes... a cat sock if he remembered that shit right...and the big toe was catching on Clint’s calf muscle as it slid up and down, up and down, up and down. Jesus christ, that was gonna be a problem too.

And finally, Foot #2 was tucked tightly against the middle of the green circle under Clint’s arch. Foot #2 was bare.

This seemed like a quality idea last night; jumping in to save the day for Panicked Steve and Mumbling Bucky made him feel all heroic, and pretending to be a sexy werewolf with Steve was cool when he was high...but now, not so much.  _ Now _ Clint had a serious hard-on and no clue which idiot was slowly moving Hand #3 away from the the blue circle on his hip and sliding it dangerously closer to the red dot on his dick. Clint held his breath and knew… knew without a shadow of doubt that he was a complete mess. A normal person would’ve jumped out of this twisted game as soon as he woke up, a normal person would’ve run for the door…but he didn’t.

Waking up yesterday, with his face smashed against the back of Nat’s neck, he’d been so goddamn happy; happy to feel good about sex for the first time, happy to feel her soft skin next to his, and happy to have _ her _ head pillowed on  _ his _ arm. She’d pulled her hair into a ponytail on the top of her head so Clint woke up with his lips pressed directly on her delicate neck. But now he was right back where he started, with Bucky’s out-of-control hair tickling his cheek and poking at his nose. What the hell was wrong with him? Why did he do this shit to himself? Why the fuck was he thinking about the last time Bucky’s hair was close enough to tickle his nose when he should be thinking about the loose tendrils of Nat’s red hair falling onto his cheek when she rolled over to kiss him?

Hand #3 was migrating into the white space between the dots, sliding across Clint’s adonis line and crossing into red. He needed to move...but he didn’t. He needed to open his eyes...but he didn’t. He needed to stop everything...but he didn’t. Foot #3 started rubbing against his ankle and he heard a mumble... a mumble that wasn’t Bucky...and he still didn’t fucking move! He just buried his face deeper into the brown waves as Bucky turned his face in Clint’s direction. When someone’s gross morning breath floats across your nose and you don’t move... you’re fucked up. When you pray Hand #3 doesn’t stop...you’re completely fucked up. Fuck.

When the first tear rolled down Clint’s face he knew Hand #2 belonged to Bucky. It was obvious by the way Bucky’s shoulder shifted as Clint nuzzled further into his goddamn hair. His breath shuddered as the fingertips of Hand #3 crept onto his dick because he still didn’t know if it belonged to Bucky or Steve... and he  _ still _ didn’t move. What the fuck? When he finally opened his eyes he found himself face to face with Bucky; two inches away from his goddamn nose and his goddamn lips and his goddamn morning breath. Two inches that Clint had turned into two miles.

Then it happened. Hand #3 wrapped around him and squeezed, and Clint couldn’t stop himself from whispering ‘fuck’ into the space between them.

Bucky’s blue eyes popped open and Clint’s first idiotic thought was last time their eyes were this close he’d just ruined everything because he was a chicken shit. Another tear fell, then two more as Bucky stared at him, confusion written all over his face, and that was it...Clint started to cry.

Hand #1 caught the edge of his piercing as it moved up to Clint’s cheek. Hand #1 belonged to Bucky which meant...

“Clint”, Bucky whispered as his thumb wiped away a tear. “Clint…”

Maybe the despicable people who shake babies, or leave their dog in a hot car while they get their hair done, or steal purses from little old ladies at gunpoint were further ahead on the highway to hell, but it would be a close race. Clint was riding their bumpers because when Steve slid his hand up...jesus fucking christ...he moaned. He fucking moaned! Bucky’s eyes narrowed and Clint could only watch in horror as Bucky looked down.

Game over.

“What the fuck!?” Bucky ripped his hand away from Clint’s cheek to push Steve’s hand off his dick.  

And there it was, served up on a silver platter like those goddamn strawberries; Clint Barton was a fucked-up creep. There was no use denying it, so why bother trying? Pulling away from Bucky he started to roll off the bed and out of this whole twisted situation.

“Don’t you fucking dare”, Bucky sneered and pressed a firm hand on his shoulder. “You aren’t moving ‘til you tell me what the hell’s going on.”

Steve mumbled something and flipped over which left Bucky...Just Bucky...who for the first time was holding  _ him _ while  _ he _ cried and that made Clint cry even more. God, he was in so much trouble, but Bucky was staring and pushing his shoulder hard enough to hurt so he had to say  _ something _ .

“You were shivering and Steve was drunk and panicking and…”

“That’s not what I’m talking about.”

“I should’ve gotten out of bed when you were okay. I never should’ve fallen asleep.” Clint was openly sobbing and Bucky was breathing heavily out of his nose, pressing his shoulder even harder against the mattress.

“That’s  _ not _ what I’m talking about.”

“I don’t know why I let him touch me, I didn’t know whose hand it was, not that it matters...fuck...I’m so fucked up, Bucky I don’t...”

“Yeah Clint, it’s fucked up... _ beyond _ fucked up...but that’s  _ not _ what I’m talking about and you fucking know it!” Bucky wasn’t whispering anymore and his face looked blurry through the tears. “Why the hell are you crying!?”

Clint couldn’t say it. He could  _ never _ say  _ anything _ he needed to say! That’s not what he did: what he  _ did _ was fuck random brunettes in dirty bathroom stalls, what he  _ did _ was start a relationship with a brunette’s sister, what he  _ did _ was smoke so much weed that brunettes faded into the background. He had to get off this bed. Now!

Jerking his shoulder only made Bucky squeeze him closer, yanking Clint’s face into his goddamn hair which made everything ten times worse! Think about red... _ please _ think about red...but Bucky’s hair was longer than Nat’s and stupidly wavy and he couldn’t fucking pretend. He was crying like a big giant pathetic baby and getting snot and tears all over the soft brown waves and he felt a scream bubbling up because what the hell was the deal with Bucky’s goddamn hair!?

“Buck?”, Steve whispered. “What’s going on?”

Bucky looked back at his boyfriend; his perfect new boyfriend chock full of worry and genuine concern and scoffed, “I have no fucking clue.”

“Of course you don’t!” Clint threw his arms over his face. He needed to get out of this bed, and out of this room, and out of this apartment, and away from Bucky, and away from Steve, and do his normal morning shit: wake and bake, jerk off in the bathroom, eat two bowls of Cinnamon Toast Crunch and text Nat. He needed to text Nat and….

Bucky apparently had other ideas. Before Clint could even register what the hell was happening, Bucky jumped onto his chest and tried to yank his arms away from his face. “You know what asshole!? The reason I don’t have a fucking clue is because  _ you don’t tell me jack shit anymore _ !”

“Let me go!”

“No!” Bucky grabbed Clint’s wrists and shoved them hard against the pillow.

“What are you? Ten? Get the fuck off me!”

“Tell me!”

Great, now he  _ was _ in a goddamn naked sword fight! But instead of Panicking Steve he was battling a lunatic in a leather collar and cat socks! Clint couldn’t write a more fucked up scene if he tried. Last night’s prequel was a glimpse into a future filled with too many cocks, pathetic playground fighting techniques, and wildly hissing brunettes. If Clint had to describe Steve’s expression as he watched this bullshit unfold he’d use words like shocked, bewildered, puzzled, perplexed and annoyed...mostly annoyed.

“Oh my god, stop it! Both of you!” Steve sounded pissed but Bucky kept right on yelling and ignored him completely.

Clint bucked his hips to try to knock Bucky off but the asshole had his wrists pinned down with locked elbows...jesus when did he get so strong?...and held firm. “No! Not till he tells me what’s wrong!?”

“Bucky, stop yelling at him! You’re not helping!”

Steve was right. Bucky wasn’t helping. Nothing was helping and nothing could, so why fight? There was no point. When Clint stopped kicking and trying to free his arms there was a slow moment when he really looked at Bucky Barnes: the little pool rat who couldn’t say the English word for ‘pizza’, the punk who’d been by his side doing stupid shit since they were twelve, the one guy that knew more about music than he did, the first person he’d kissed...he really looked at his best friend sitting on top of him with his fucking hair flying all over the place and Clint knew  _ exactly  _ what was wrong.

When Bucky hissed, “tell me what your fuckin’ problem is”, Clint knew the game was over. Not just Naked Twister, but  _ everything _ ; every one sided game he’d been playing was coming to its inevitable conclusion. His battleships were sinking, the bank had all his paper money, his flag was captured, and Bucky just snatched Clint’s Queen and yelled ‘checkmate’.

“Okay, that’s it. Enough!” Steve yanked Bucky backwards by his armpits and Clint could only watch as Bucky’s naked body, in those stupid socks and that fucking collar, was peeled off like a Band-Aid. Since Bucky was fighting back it wasn’t quick and painless. Clint could feel every tiny hair ripping out at the root and every piece of his skin sticking to the adhesive as Steve pulled Bucky away. And it hurt. It hurt so bad that all he felt was rage.

“You wanna know what my fucking problem is!?” Clint jolted up to his elbows and Steve froze with Bucky ripped off halfway.

“Yes!”

“It’s you!” Clint wanted to punch Bucky right in his goddamn nuts! “ _ You’re _ my fucking problem! Just  _ you _ ! Why the hell do you do this to me!?” Clint bucked his hips to try to get Bucky’s knees away from his hips because he couldn’t touch him anymore! He couldn’t look at him anymore! Not like this!

“Bucky, come on, get off him.” Steve ripped him off the rest of the way and dropped him at the end of the bed. The sting of it was almost unbearable as Steve threw a Panic Blanket in Clint’s lap, like a goddamn gentlemen, then launched one at Bucky’s head. Pretty handy having a shit load of blankets strewn everywhere. Jesus fucking christ. When Steve wrapped one around himself the only thing Clint could think was ‘great, let’s have a toga party while I have a meltdown’. Perfect.

Steve, who wasn’t an idiot when he was sober, took a step backwards in his stupid toga and said, “want me to leave?”

Clint snorted because why should Steve leave now? If Humiliation was the new card game why not go the whole nine yards and deal Steve Rogers in? You’ve gotta know when to hold em, know when to fold em, know when to walk away, and know when to run, right? Steve and Bucky were holding all the cards and Clint was about to get shot in the back for cheating. Clint shook his head and sniffled and wondered how he lost his Poker Face. Clint was an idiot for thinking about Kenny Rogers and Lady Gaga in the middle of this horrific scene!

Bucky’s energy shifted as he wrapped the silky blanket around his back and over his head like a cloak. When he asked, “what do I do to you?”, the monotone was way worse than the yelling. “Is this about yesterday? I know I was a dick...”

“It’s not about yesterday.” Clint found himself talking in his own monotone and pulling up his own soft blanket under his armpits, pinning it around him like a claustrophobic cocoon.

Steve took his toga party across the room and fell into the modern armchair by the window. Light was pouring through the long sheer curtains and Clint could see him sucking in slow breaths and holding them in.

Bucky did three slow owl-blinks before he said, “is this because Steve touched your dick?”

“Not really.” Clint’s pushed his cocoon up to his neck because this shit was awful.  

“I did what!?” Steve was no longer taking slow breaths and holding them in, and he was no longer sitting. “What did you just say!?”

“Steve, it’s fine. You were sleeping.” Clint waved his hand around like he could magically make the humiliation go away; like somehow he could snap his fingers and the two of diamonds, the three of hearts, the five of spades and the goddamn Joker would turn into Aces. It didn’t work.

Panic Steve was back so Clint almost missed it when Bucky whispered, “yeah, but you weren’t sleeping, were you Clint?”

“Oh my god! I’m so sorry Clint! Oh my god!” Steve was completely freaking out, but Clint couldn’t hear him over the intensity of Bucky’s stare.

“Steve. Not now.” Bucky somehow managed to say it calmly, even though his eyes never left Clint’s. Somehow it was enough to get Steve to restlessly sit back down in the noonday sun.

“What do I do to you Clint?” Bucky was daring him to answer, his upper lip curled in the faintest sneer under the shadow of the blanket hood.

“I don’t know how to say it.”

“Just fucking say it.”

Clint needed to smoke. He needed to smoke. He needed to smoke. He needed to light up the biggest joint and keep his mouth fucking shut, but he heard himself say, “you make me feel stuff.”

Bucky twisted up his features as he bounced that pathetic explanation right back at Clint, his wimpy bounce of the ping pong ball returned with a vicious corner hit that blew past before Clint could even swing his paddle. “Feel stuff?”

“I’ve been lying....”

“Clint…”, Bucky interrupted for no reason at all.

“Just let me say it! Goddammit! I’ve been lying about stuff and watching you with Steve...it’s been weird and I’m confused and…”

The tension in the room was thick and Clint could feel Steve watching them. He felt the air get heavier when Bucky growled, “lying about what?”

He looked like a fucking Sith Lord!

Clint paused, taking a few more seconds before he destroyed everything. Squeezing his fists tightly Clint looked directly into blue eyes because it’s what Bucky deserved. “I let you think it was all your fault.”

“Let me think  _ what _ was all my fault Clint?…” Bucky sounded calm but the undercurrent of anger was welling up again and he was anything but.

“I realized I feel things and I probably always have, but I…”

Bucky started backing away, crawling backwards on the bed in a panic blanket, collar and cat socks, and Clint felt it coming. The hair on his arms stood up, his heart started pounding and Steve abandoned his chair; as if they both sensed the danger... a gale force wind that fools you with momentary stillness before roaring back to life.

“You aren’t saying  _ anything _ Clint! Stop fucking around and spit it out! What the fuck are you trying to say!?”

Steve rounded the bed but Bucky threw his arm out straight and he stopped in his tracks. This moment...this moment right here was do or die...this was the moment their friendship got better or came to an end.

Tell him. Simple words. Simple words that seemed impossible to say. So simple but the only thing that slithered out of his pathetic mouth was, “I think about you.”

Clint figured he had about five seconds left before the dealer took all his chips. Bucky’s jaw was trembling and his arms were shaking as he snarled, “say it!”

“I can’t stop myself…” Two seconds until Clint sunk the eight ball into the corner pocket well before its time.

Bucky slammed his closed fists against the mattress, which may as well have been Clint’s heart, and yelled, “Fucking say it!!!”

Time was up and Clint screamed, “I loved you too!”

The room froze. There was an image of sunlight streaming through dirty windows high above the wooden bleachers at the YMCA, catching the edges of dust particles as they floated through the humid air. A ray landed across the top three panels of the Watchman comic Clint had placed in the hands of a boy who didn’t know the English word for ‘pizza’.

When Bucky backed up towards the door, wrapped in his cloak, he tripped on the empty tray of strawberries and smashed the metal against the nightstand. Steve said something to Bucky without speaking a single word, and Bucky told him plainly, “I can’t deal with this right now.”

“Buck”, Steve called out to him.

“I can’t deal with any of this right now”, he said to nobody then walked out the door.

*****

 

Honestly, Clint expected Steve to break his nose with a perfectly aimed punch...like he broke Brock’s, or to aim his anger squarely at Clint’s chest and snap a few ribs...like he dented that locker. What he  _ didn’t _ expect was Steve Rogers crawling around in the mess of clothes and blankets and fucking lube bottles littered all over the floor to toss Clint’s his sweats and Sir-Mix-a-lot shirt. And there was no way in hell he ever thought Steve Rogers would sit his ass on the edge of the bed and talk to him like a friend...but that’s what he did.

Steve had thrown on dirty jeans and Bucky’s ‘Power Bottom’ shirt which was fucking hilarious and all kinds of crazy, but after losing his best friend Clint decided the appropriate reaction would be to keep his fucking mouth shut and get dressed. And that’s where they were now; Steve sitting next to Clint’s knees, calm as can be, Clint looking awkwardly around the room, freaking out and counting the seconds of awkward silence. Two-hundred-thirty-three Mississippi, Two-hundred-thirty-four Mississippi, Two-hundred-thir…”

“So”, Steve  _ finally _ questioned as he stared at the closed door, “you’re bi?”

“No!”, Clint snorted. But as soon as he said it he knew it was a big fucking lie. Steve knew it too because his eyebrows shot up in the universal sign for bullshit, so Clint clarified. “I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?”

_ Did _ he know? It didn’t feel like he knew anything anymore. Clint pushed the hair that was flopping into his eyes back towards the pillow and caught sight of the purple tips Bucky dyed two weeks ago. It seemed like months had passed since Bucky squeezed into the tiny space between the bathroom sink and Clint’s knees to splatter and drip purple dye all over Prince and his favorite baby blue shoes. He thought about the first time they watched ‘Purple Rain’ at Clint’s house, when Bucky insisted on drinking grape juice out of his mom’s beer mugs. He thought about Bucky singing ‘Raspberry Beret’ when they were looking for a vinyl copy of ‘Around the World in a Day’ at Record Time in Queens. He thought about ...dammit...a thousand memories flooded his brain with new context and suddenly Clint  _ did _ know. He felt so frustrated when he whispered, “it’s only Bucky.”

How high could Steve’s eyebrows go? Seriously, Clint felt ripped open and exposed, like a sword sliced into his stomach horror movie style and he was desperately pressing his hands against the gaping hole so his intestines didn’t spill out. Every hidden piece of flesh and bone was visible to Steve Rogers’ judgemental eyes as kept right on slicing with those goddamn eyebrows!

“Seems like that’s a common theme around here.” Steve set his jaw which was sharp enough to cut through everything soft and important until he hit Clint’s spine. “Care to expand on that for me?”

“Not really.”

Steve + raised eyebrows + set jaw + arms crossed = that answer wasn’t gonna fly.

Clint realized he was actually wrapping his arms around his stomach in a subconscious attempt to save his organs. “Fine. Seeing Bucky with you, it’s... it’s been weird. I had no clue this would happen, I swear to god, but I’m having a hard time and it’s freaking me out and I’m obviously doing a shit job hiding it.”

Steve + raised eyebrows + set jaw + crossed arms + puffed chest = deep shit.

Breathing out his nose Steve asked the million dollar question. “So, you wanna be with him?”

“No!” Clint stumbled awkwardly off the other side of the bed because this slumber-party-pow-wow wasn’t like the girly shit you see in movies. Steve wasn’t playfully whacking him in the face with a feather pillow, or making him an overflowing root beer float with extra vanilla ice cream, or braiding his hair... like Nat...Jesus. No, Steve was asking if Clint wanted to steal his boyfriend!

Clint ran around the bed and parked himself right in front of...god that shirt was so damn funny on Steve...fuck. He stood right in front of Steve because this speech was happening live and he needed to be crystal clear. “Dude, that’s not what I’m saying! Not at all. You two are great together! God, the way he smiles at you? You look like the sappy romantic leads in the most sappy Hollywood romance ever! And the way you dance together? It’s like you’re one person. Steve, I’ve never seen Bucky like that,  _ ever _ ! Even with all the shit that’s going down, he’s happy and I can’t give him that. I couldn’t do it before and I can’t do it now. He just fucks me up...I’m fucked up. And Nat…” Clint took a step backwards because this was so much worse than Cruel Intentions. “...I really care for her. I really, really do. It’s just...I’ve done so much shitty stuff since…”

Clint stopped talking because how could he even begin to tell the truth? How the hell would all his crimes sound out loud? He stared at Steve and tried a few horrible ideas out in his mind: ‘I’ve done so much shitty stuff since I tossed Bucky into the friendzone after he gave me the most intimate moment of my life?...since I pushed Bucky away because I felt something when Bucky licked up my chest and smiled against my lips?...since I flipped out and let Bucky think everything was his fault, that he’d read everything wrong?... since I had a sexual identity crisis and fucked a bunch of random brunettes trying to get Bucky out of my system?’ Clint backed up against the wall because he was such a dick and there was no good way to finish that sentence.

The only thing he could think to say was, “he should know the truth.”

“So letting you naked cuddle with him was probably the wrong move.” Steve uncrossed his arms and Clint got distracted by that damn power bottom t-shirt. Steve quirked up the corner of his mouth, which was weird, until Clint’s brain finally caught up and realized...

“Wait...was that a joke?”

“Yes”, Steve chuckled and blinked his eyes a few times, which was just batshit crazy.

Who  _ was _ this guy? Who was Steve Rogers? Who the hell reacts like that!? Was this some sort of sick joke to him? Leaning back against the wall, Clint’s eyes focused on the empty orange juice glass and everything dropped to a much deeper level. The empty orange juice glass pushed him back to the moment Steve whispered, ‘come back to me sweetheart’, the moment Steve brushed Bucky’s chocolate brown waves out of his face and kissed his forehead gently, the moment when Steve held the orange juice to Bucky’s shivering lips and filled his stomach with sugar. Who was Steve Rogers? That empty glass made Clint realize Steve Rogers was perfect for Bucky, he was everything Bucky needed and everything that Clint wasn’t. Steve Rogers was a glass half full and Clint was a glass half empty.

“Listen Clint”, Steve began, leaning his elbows against his knees. “You really stepped up last night and I need to thank you. I put you in a really bad situation and I’m sorry. I screwed up and you stepped in without question because you’re a great friend. And yeah, your relationship with Bucky’s a total mess. When he went at you yesterday, which wasn’t okay by the way, it became pretty clear that you two have some serious issues. But you’re his best friend and he needs you...and you obviously need him too.”

“You serious with me right now?” Clint couldn’t help but scrunch up his face in shock, because what? “Lemme get this straight... I naked spoon your boyfriend all night, admit I’ve got confusing feelings for him and I’ve been lying about it for months, and your response is ‘he needs me’?”

“Yes.”

Clint meant it wholeheartedly when he said, “you’re crazier than Bucky.”

“Oh, I’m definitely crazier than Bucky.” Steve laughed and proved it with the insanity that came out of his mouth next. “Clint, bottom line: he needs you. And to be honest, I’m realizing I need you too.”

Okay, that was too much.

“You need me too?! I swear to god Steve, what are even talking about!? Did you touch my dick on purpose!? ‘Cause you did it last night too! You rubbed the back of your hand all up and down my stomach and totally on my dick!”

“Oh my god! I did not touch your dick on purpose! I was  _ sleeping _ !”

“You weren’t sleeping last night!”

Steve stared at him, his mouth catching flies, and the look of complete shock crawling across his face convinced Clint there was no weird threesome creepiness afoot. He was just being plain weird, stupidly sincere, and annoyingly perfect.

“Fine, I believe you”, Clint sighed and slid down the wall to sit cross legged in a puddle of self-loathing.

They both stopped talking and Clint’s thoughts drifted back to Bucky; pissed off in a blanket toga and cat socks somewhere in the other room, busy hating Clint for a thousand well deserved reasons. He kicked at the empty silver tray and really wanted another chocolate covered strawberry. “He’s not gonna forgive me.”

“He will if you talk to him. Just tell him whatever it is you haven’t been telling him.”

“This is such a weird conversation Steve.”

Steve chuckled and bent his foot across his knee, Foot #2, and started bouncing it at the ankle. “I understand by the way.”

Picking at the chocolate crumbs Clint sniffed, “understand what?”

“Bucky makes falling in love with him the easiest thing in the world.”

*****

 

The currents of air that spiral in flowing patterns across the Earth bring times of brilliant light and times of devastating darkness, times of warmth and times of cold, times of bounty and times of famine, and times of hope followed by times of deep despair. Every single thing, controlled in its own way by the flow of atmosphere across a mysterious planet. Steve had his eyes closed under the four-hundred dollar aviators he ‘bought’ for Bucky with his blood money. The sand, if one could call the particles along the Coney Island shore ‘sand’, felt warm underneath his back despite the pebbles and rocks that poked at him from between the grains.

Of course Tony was the one to plan, as he put it, ‘one last beach blowout before Manhattan turns into ‘The Day After Tomorrow’ and they all had to start running from hungry wolves’. Michael returned with the limo stuffed full of towels, swim trunks in all sizes and styles, and beach toys. Steve wondered how the employee on Howard Stark’s payroll, the one that drew the short straw and had to buy six plastic buckets with coordinating shovels, a volleyball, neon frisbees, sunscreen, coolers, and snacks at the beginning of October, felt about their job. Wheeling past the Halloween displays with their arching black cats and generic ghosts with a cart full of clearance beach crap must have been quite the sight.

Even though they’d been friends for years, sometimes Steve forgot Tony could be a thoughtful human being. He listened for Tony’s boisterous voice among the hundreds of people surrounding him on the beach but Steve couldn’t pick it out. Tony was absorbed into the background when his act of kindness should be putting him front and center. Anyone who calls their personal assistant, insists they drop everything to buy a selection of swimsuits, brings them to Tribeca immediately, and spreads them out on the glass dining room table so a girl he met last night at a club could go to the beach should  _ always _ be known as a thoughtful person. Regardless of their general rudeness, rampant alcohol consumption and abrasive personality. Since Sam yanked Tony into huge bear hug after Chloe picked out a bikini Steve imagined he’d agree; Tony Stark is a thoughtful asshole.

Steve could hear Chloe’s laughter, a high pitched giggle spiraling through the air and twisting around the richness of Sam’s voice. Even with his eyes closed Steve could tell they were running back and forth along the water’s edge. Chloe leading and Sam giving chase, her navy and white polka dot bikini complimenting her ivory skin as Sam caught up and wrapped his dark hands around her narrow waist. It would make a stunning photograph, the strong contrast between their bodies enhancing their unique beauty. He kept his eyes closed and appreciated the influx of joy their laughter added to the larger spiraling patterns. Steve still wasn’t sure what happened last night between Sam and Chloe, or Tony and Macauley for that matter, but the way they were all acting around their new ‘friends’ gave him the distinct feeling things went well all around.

He let his hands slide off the rainbow striped towel, because Tony does nothing half ass, and rooted around for pebbles in the surrounding sand. A quick search yielded several, and Steve started rolling them around palms while he thought about balance.

While everyone else was marching towards the shore loaded down with waterproof sunscreen, bags of Doritos, Pringles, Pretzels, and a yellow rubber duckie raft, Sam had grabbed Steve’s shoulder from behind.

Bucky was covered in pink and mint green buckets, the plastic handles looped over his forearms like Chinese lanterns swinging in the breeze, and he was cracking up as Clint recounted Scott’s naked dick trauma for the third time. He looked so gorgeous that Steve had gotten lost in the glowing lanterns and toothy smile and stopped on the wooden path. That’s when Sam broke the spell and instructed him, in no uncertain terms, to ‘put down the cooler, it’s time for a serious talk about your recent life decisions’.

Bucky’s feet had just crossed the line from wood to sand and he stopped too, making Steve wonder if their movements were somehow tethered. The plastic colors swung and clanged on his arms as Bucky turned back with a face full of questions, but Sam pointed a stern finger towards their friends, zigzagging across the sand and gave Bucky his own instruction... ‘we’ll be there in a minute man’...and the tether snapped.

Once Sam had him alone he’d leaned against the wooden fence, crossed his ankles and unleashed a detailed list of all the reasons he was disappointed in Steve. He used his fingers as a visual aid.

Dropping the pebbles from his hands Steve felt around in the sand to retrieve the smoothest one. He squeezed it between his thumb and index finger and focused on his breathing. Sam had started with his thumb….

“Since you’re struggling with basic self-preservation skills lately, I’m gonna count this shit out on my fingers to make sure there’s no misunderstanding.” He’d popped up his thumb and proceeded to rip Steve a new asshole.

“You did so much dangerous shit this week that it’s hard for me to decide where to start...hmm, how about coming out of the closet in the most dramatic way possible in front of half the school? Tell me Steve, you think that was good idea for someone in your situation? Alexander burned your arm that _ morning _ because you weren’t taking Sharon to the dance! So I’ve gotta ask; the blistered skin didn’t make you question that move?”

The truth was Steve hadn’t thought about Alexander at all. He couldn’t feel the blisters filling with yellow fluid as Bucky unwrapped the walkman. There was no awareness of pain as the hot swollen skin pulled tighter and tighter when Steve buckled each cuff and declared his intent. The only thoughts in his head were about Bucky and making sure he knew.

Steve shifted the pressure of the pebble towards his index finger and picked out Scott’s voice from the pattern. He was rambling to Clint about something. Food? Frisbees? Fritos? It didn’t matter. He pushed the pebble harder because the thing that mattered was Sam’s index finger…

“Ready for the index finger? Here it comes, ready or not. I know  _ damn well _ you bought Bucky’s suit on Alexander’s tab, and I know  _ damn well _ why you kept that fun little fact to yourself. Why you ask? Because you knew  _ damn well _ I would’ve told you how stupid that was! I would’ve told you it was suicidal to wave a bright red flag in front of the angry bull! I would’ve told you spending thousands of dollars on your new  _ boyfriend _ was the equivalent of shouting ‘come on bull, charge on over here and gore me with your giant horns’!”

The pebble was hurting Steve’s finger, as all things do when you push them too hard. Was he asking for it? Was he courting danger to trigger some inevitable outcome? Steve thought about the four scratches on that shiny blue suit, four scratches on a target Steve created, and pushed the pebble even harder. Steve remembered bubbles popping in the rising steam, angry outbursts aimed at loyal knights, and claw marks scarring things most precious. Sam was right; Steve  _ was _ the matador waving a rippling red cloth to tempt fate. Except his body wasn’t what the bull targeted with its horns, it was Bucky who was impaled against the walls of the arena.

Steve let the pebble shift and squished it hard against his ring finger and realized he was a self-centered asshole. Sure, he stopped being a dick to Bucky and his friends, but in exchange acted like a dick to all his old ones. The rocky sand started burning the skin on his legs where they hung off the towel but he didn’t move...he didn’t move because Sam’s ring finger made him feel like dirt...

“Next, we have the ring finger. I’m totally supportive of you and Bucky, at least I was until this morning, but man, did you _need_ to stroll into homecoming and shout it out like that? The teachers? All the kids who hate us now...and notice I said _us_ , because if they’re shitting on you they’re usually shitting on me too; not sure if you noticed that. All the girls you’ve fooled around with and dumped since Freshman year? Did you stop to think about Peggy? Seriously Steve, after the disaster at prom you’re gonna parade Bucky Barnes in front of her like he’s the most perfect thing in the world? And for christ’s sake, did Sharon even cross your mind? I saw her face when you walked in and kissed Bucky in the doorway. She tried to play it off but she was upset Steve! And let’s not forget Brock Rumlow; after what Castle said were you daring him to try something? I mean dammit Steve, I’d _never_ tell you to hide who you are but you need to think about other people too. I didn’t say anything because you’re a big boy, but I damn well should have because you’re poking at bears. You’re poking at them with the sharpest sticks you can find and they _are_ eventually gonna wake up.”

Steve supposed it went back to the patterns swirling around the Earth: brilliant light followed by devastating darkness, relaxing warmth chased by bitter cold, overflowing bounty stripping the soil of nourishment and stunting future crops, and hopeful siren songs luring you into inevitable despair. The pebble rolled through his fingertips until it rested on his pinky...

“Oh, this one is  _ way _ too big for my pinky finger but I’m saving a certain finger for last. That shit with Bucky and Clint yesterday? Wanna tell me what that was? Real talk right here: you aren’t always the most stable person Steve, but that shit in the limo was next level crazy! And the t-shirt thing about ‘free protein shakes’? What the hell? And that handprint? Nice letting me know what happened, really appreciate it man.”

Steve dropped the pebble and dug around for a bigger one. Sam’s final finger needed a rock; a sharp rock with jutting edges that Steve could push against his middle finger to cut himself...

“I saved the best for last and reserved my middle finger to emphasize how I feel. You wanna clarify how you got the bright idea to fuck not just one dude, but  _ two _ ! What kind of twisted shit did Bucky drag...”

“Sam, that’s not…” Steve tried to interrupt but there was no stopping the truth.

“Two weeks ago it was Sharon Carter! You were getting your dick sucked by Sharon Carter two fucking weeks ago! Then last week, you suddenly decide to have sex with a guy. Fine, I get it, you’re into him. But you realize you’re gay and instantly turn into the most sexually active person I know? I’m including Ezra and Tony in that equation by the way. You went from zero to a thousand overnight. I’m still fine, I’m still rolling with it...but this morning…oh let’s talk  _ all _ about this morning. Don’t think I didn’t see that collar when your boyfriend slinked out and stole the Pop Tarts! Don’t think that shit got past me, because it didn’t! I’m trying to be on board with the Steve and Bucky train, but in two weeks you’ve graduated to threesomes! A threesome with two ‘best friends’ who spent most of the day being total dicks to each other! Not to mention Natasha! For god’s sake Steve, I’d never think you’d do that to Natasha! What’s next!?”

“Sam...”

“I can’t keep up man. I can’t…”

“Sam, I didn’t have a threesome.”

“Right. You expect me to believe that when I saw your naked ass wrapped around  _ two _ naked guys Steve!?”

“It was an accident.” Steve started laughing, he couldn’t help it. Sam’s eyes were bugging out of his head and he started getting loud three fingers ago, the poor people trying to get past them for an enjoyable day at the beach just received some unwelcome sex education.

“Oh I see how it is. You think its funny? Yeah, you’re hilarious.”

“I swear Sam, Bucky and I had a sex disaster because I’m an idiot and Clint helped me fix it. I’ll tell you the whole story when we aren’t traumatizing innocent beachgoers, but I promise that’s it. There was no sex with Clint Barton.” Steve left out the drama because it had nothing to do with the threesome allegation and he didn’t want Sam to start on the other hand.

Sam finally stopped yelling at him and dropped his five fingers of disappointment onto the railing. “I’m not sure I believe a word of that, not a single word, because that sounds like a lame excuse I’d give my mama...but I’m moving on. What about the rest? Fingers one through four?”

Steve didn’t hesitate when he replied, “you’re probably right about those.”

“Damn straight”, Sam crossed his arms and looked accomplished.

“So, Chloe seems nice.”

“Good segue. Very smooth. You plan that ahead of time? Yes, she’s very nice and I, unlike you and everyone else I’m friends with, keep my love life private.”

“Love life eh?”

“You heard me.”

“Not gonna tell me anything?”

“No.”

“C’mon Sam, you saw me in a very compromising position this morning and I get nothing?”

“Man, your ruined strawberries for me! Every Thanksgiving I’m gonna think about all the despicable things you probably did with those strawberries while I’m trying to enjoy my mama’s pie. So yeah, you get nothing.” Sam shook his head and clapped Steve on the back but his eyes were still serious. “We’re not done talking about this.”

“Are you gonna date her?”

“Pick up that cooler and shut up man. If you’re not gonna listen to me then I’m gonna go charm that beautiful young lady.”

 

So here Steve was, contemplating the spiraling air and thinking about cause and effect, the laws of energy, and the delicate balance of the universe. His friends were having fun all around him, playing with things molded from colorful plastic and devouring man-made snacks full of red dye 40 and yellow number 6, while Steve was burning his skin on hot sand and thinking about balance. Bucky ran past, Steve had learned his footfalls already, and he was being chased by a pattern of motion he didn’t recognize. When he only recognized Bucky’s rhythm he knew Sam was right. There were now eight pebbles on his right and sixteen on his left and he was blindly stacking them into little mounds. Steve wanted them to be balanced, but life rarely is.

Witnessing the ups and downs of Clint and Bucky made Steve wonder if he and Bucky would end up there; creating a history that rendered them inseparable even in the midst of drama and confusion? Would they would build layers upon layers of memories and emotion that made each new action that much richer? After Bucky walked out on Clint and they came to an understanding, Steve stayed on the bed staring at the high ceiling and thinking about the future, while Clint ate leftover chocolate pieces off the metal tray and camped out next to the nightstand. They both stayed there in silence, no doubt thinking about their respective futures with Bucky, for at least twenty minutes before the subject of their silence came back into the room.

Somewhere he’d found a pair of jeans and judging by the three inches of ankle sticking out the bottom, all signs pointed towards Clint’s. He still had on his collar, which was gonna be a total clusterfuck, and another one of Tony’s tank tops. This one had Freddie Mercury in aviators and Steve had to smile because Friday morning Bucky performed a rousing version of ‘The Show Must Go On’ for the morning sing-a-long. He sounded so much like Freddie that Steve refused to join, listening in wonder as Bucky’s voice carried down the hall.

In his right hand Bucky had three strawberry Pop Tarts stacked one on top of the other, with a dangerously full glass of orange juice in his left. Steve could hear the undercurrent of noise from the living room; laughing and yelling, some jokes about dogs and leashes, something about Dakota Johnson, but all that mattered was the look on Bucky’s face as he presented Steve with a Pop Tart. He looked strong and beautiful as he leaned over to kiss Steve’s cheek.

“I’m so glad I’m yours.”

“You’re mine?”

Bucky nodded then took a bite of the two stacked Poptarts. “Yeah Stevie, all yours”, he whispered spewing crumbs.

Steve laughed and Bucky smiled a gross strawberry smile. It was perfect.

“I need to um…” Bucky shook his head towards Clint who’d run out of chocolate scraps and was picking at the carpet.

“I know you do baby.”

“Hey dickface.” Bucky squatted down in front of Clint and some of the orange juice sloshed into Clint’s lap. “Damn, these jeans are tight! Why’s your ass so much smaller than mine! Fuck. Anyway, I brought you breakfast.”

Clint lifted his head, ignoring the spilled orange juice and Steve could see the confusion, the hope in his eyes as Bucky poked Sir Mix-a-lot with the Pop Tarts and plopped the juice on the nightstand.

“You fed me strawberries, if I’m remembering things correctly, so I’m returning the favor.”

Clint shook his head and looked like he was going to cry again.

“Oh no you don’t. Stark said we’re going to the beach and we’re gonna frolic in the sand and throw frisbees all over the place and you’re gonna buy me  _ all _ the junk food. Oh, and I wanna see you throw Scott in the water. Then later, you’re gonna tell me everything. I swear to god Clint,  _ everything _ . But right now, you and Steve are gonna shove these high quality Pop Tarts in your mouths, take some Advil...I took three because jesus...and come pick out a mother fucking bathing suit.”

“Bucky…”

“Clint…”

“But…”

“Listen, wanna feel bad for a minute? Yeah, I’m pissed at you and you’re gonna tell me every single thing you lied about, I hope. And we’re gonna talk about Natasha...oh buddy, are we gonna talk about her... but I love you no matter what, and I really think acting crazy on the beach will make everybody feel better.” Bucky fell back on his ass and almost dropped the Pop Tarts. “Fuck these jeans!”, he laughed. “I mean Clint, don’t you want a Bomb Pop?”

Clint waited a few beats and let his head fall back against the wall before he quietly answered, “you know I love Bomb Pops.”

“Damn right I know you love Bomb Pops! We ate at least ten zillion this summer! Fucking delicious! Stevie, do you like Bomb Pops?” Bucky shoved another huge bite into his mouth and grinned. God, he was so adorably gross.

“Yeah baby, I like Bomb Pops.” Steve smiled because they were his favorite summer treat.

“Then it’s settled.” Bucky reached over and ruffled Clint’s hair so it fell all over his face. “Bomb Pop Party! Let’s see if Tony can deep throat!”

  
  
  


Steve had twenty-six pebbles on the left now, and only twelve on the right and he remembered how strong Bucky looked when he ruffled Clint’s hair. There were no more pebbles to be found, except the ones he could feel under his back, but he wasn’t moving. Instead he pretended to be asleep under the mirrors, pressing his back against the soft cotton towel and listening carefully to the patterns of air flowing and weaving through his friends. There were seagulls flying and squawking overhead, laughing children splashing in the chilly water, a large dog barking in the distance, and music flowing from all four directions. His mind began tracking the sound of the waves crashing against the shore, trying to figure out the timing between the crest and the trough. It created strange music with the rhythmic thump of a volleyball bouncing back and forth along with the corresponding grunts of kids trying to make the save. Steve slowed his breathing to match the timing of his Coney Island composition, allowing the rumbles and screams floating across the beach from The Cyclone to carry him somewhere he hadn’t allowed himself to go in a very long time.

He’d like to bring Bucky back to Luna Park, just the two of them. Today, with everyone else, he couldn’t deal with the memories of his mother handing him freshly spun pink cotton candy and sharing a snow cone that stained both of their mouths red. With everyone else he couldn’t think about the string attached to a yellow helium balloon slipping from his small hand and floating into the sky along with the sound of her laughter.

Over the years Sam and Tony tried to convince him to go to Coney Island a thousand times but he always made excuses. As far as they knew he’d never set foot on this beach before today. Steve cupped his hand over the twenty-six pebbles and felt stronger just by touching them. Strong enough to remember how pissed Peggy got when he refused to take her. She put together a huge group of friends and very pointedly went without him, making sure to send him a selfie from the top of the ferris wheel with the text ‘so glad we could share this romantic moment Steven’. She’d been angry but he knew he couldn’t share this history with her. It didn’t feel right. He wasn’t ready to deal with the memory of his mother’s slender hand squeezing his tiny fingers as they waited in line for The Cyclone, he wasn’t ready to deal with the sounds of historic wood flexing and creaking as the coaster screamed across the rails, and he wasn’t ready to deal with the memory of his mom stretching her arm across his skinny chest as they raced up and down each hill, trying to keep his small body from flying up against the safety bar. He couldn’t deal with it, which is why he hadn’t been back since she died. But today was different. When Tony revealed his grand plan Steve felt instinctive panic, like a bad habit, but then Bucky picked up Scott and started shaking him up and down in the living room yelling ‘Coney Island! Coney Island! Coney Island!’ and Steve realized why today was different; today he had Bucky.

There were so many sounds rolling over him as he hid under the mirrors, but the one that came to the forefront was Bucky’s laughter; his joy intertwining with Steve’s history. Sam was right but he let himself indulge anyway. He let himself touch twenty-six sturdy pebbles and imagined walking hand in hand with Bucky to wait in line for The Cyclone; the path a twisting timeline of life and death with the ghosts of a hundred years of feet moving forward to take their ride. His mother’s feet had walked that path, a queue of history that now could fall under Bucky’s baby blue converse. Steve tried to let the memory of his small feet walking that path in beat up blue tennis shoes intermingle with the size they were now; to allow the history of his mother to remain intact while he created new memories with someone special; someone his mother would have loved.

Maybe Bucky would have his red bandana tied around his wrist, or maybe Steve could gently tie it around his neck. There was no doubt his boyfriend was the kind of guy to jump up and sit on the silver railings no matter how many times a bored teenage worker making minimum wage hollered at him to get down. Steve could imagine making brand new memories in that line with Bucky; memories filled with too much Mountain Dew, lots of secret butt grabs, and funny brain games where they tried to come up with as many ‘Q’ words as they could: quiet, quarrel, quasar, quick, quarter, question. Bucky would say things like Harley Quinn and Q-tip to win the round.

Steve could feel the lightness of the air around him, the crisp reduction in barometric pressure beckoning him to revel in the illusion of words flying through his mind...quake, quiver, quinoa...to get lost in the sound of Bucky and Clint laughing as someone threw the frisbee into the water...qualify, quality, quantum. Steve wished the sounds of this perfect day were all he could hear. The beautiful alto of Bucky’s voice saying Quentin Tarantino, Queen Latifah and Queensryche mixed over the top of the laughter and the seagulls and Lou Reed’s ‘A Perfect Day’.

 

 ‘Just a perfect day, problems just left alone, weekenders on our own, it’s such fun. 

           Just a perfect day, you made me forget myself, I thought I was someone else, someone good. 

Oh it’s such a perfect day, I’m glad I spent it with you, you just 

keep me hangin’ on.’ 

 

God, if Steve could just stay right here, listening to that song on repeat...a thousand perfect days with no end in sight...but that wasn’t how the flow of air worked. There was always flux.

He could feel it coming and hear the rumbling on the horizon, the ebb beginning to flow and the pressure beginning to rise. Sand suddenly flew across his stomach as someone jumped over him to make the catch. Steve didn’t open his eyes to see if it was Bucky or Clint. From the laughter he even thought it might be Scott, but it didn’t matter. It didn’t matter because this was it... the last day.

Steve opened his eyes but didn’t move, didn’t let anyone know he could see them from behind the polarized mirrors. The neon pink frisbee was flying in and out of his view, a game of three way frisbee zigzagging over his head. The pink trails created overlapping stripes across the blue of the sky, like vapor trails from jetliners on their way to a thousand different destinations. Steve tried to zero in on Bucky’s laugh, to focus on Bucky swearing when he missed and Scott scolding ‘there’s kids around, stop saying ‘shit’!’, to zoom in on Clint purposely throwing it bad so Bucky would kick more sand onto Steve. Bucky was wearing his favorite pink sunglasses, telling Steve he didn’t feel comfortable wearing four hundred dollar sunglasses to the beach, and he’d pinned seven ‘Support Steve & Bucky’ pins in a vertical line on his board shorts. Of course he’d picked the ones that had the eighties sunset plastered across his ass. Every time Bucky jumped for the frisbee his body moved in perfectly choreographed motions of musculature and organic machinery. Steve tried really hard to stay inside Bucky’s laughter, and inside his toothy smile, and his crinkled nose... he needed to stay because they only had one more perfect afternoon.

Steve propped himself up on his elbows and Clint shouted, “hey, the monkey in the middle woke up!”

“Yeah, ‘cause you woke me up asshole. I was sleeping.”

“That’s what you always say!” Clint caught a perfect throw from Scott and laughed, “and I still don’t believe you.”

The frisbee whizzed two feet over his head and Bucky dove to catch it, landing on the pile of sixteen pebbles and acting impervious to the pain they must have caused. “Hey Stevie”, he laughed and tossed it into the thin air above them, “catch.”

It was instinctive to reach up and snatch it out of the air. The plastic edges felt smooth in Steve’s hands as he stood up and looked at his friend’s eager faces. How did he get here? He rotated the neon pink disc counterclockwise even though his heart was begging him to hold it completely still. How did he get to this spot, on this beach, on this rectangular towel, holding the neon cyclone in his hands and watching as the unstoppable eyewall rose behind his beautiful boyfriend? How did  _ they _ get here? The plastic moved in his hands again and Steve knew this was it. The final fun afternoon at the shore soaking up the last of the indian summer rays before the weather turned. The final day to laugh as Tony chased Macauley down the beach trying to pour Gatorade on his head. The final day to smile as Sam and Chloe, a girl who finally seemed worthy of his attention, played in the Atlantic. The final day to watch a girl with spiraling curls and a polka dot bikini climb onto Sam’s strong shoulders and dive off into the waves. The final day to chuckle as Clint and Scott shoved each other like they’d been friends for years. The final day to throw frisbees and kick sand into the air. The final day to lick Bucky’s therapeutic Bomb Pops and learn that Tony definitely could  _ not _ deep throat. The final day to listen to the music on Bucky’s Incubus Island; to discern the catchy pop melody in the gentle breeze and try to keep time from moving forward. On this final perfect day Steve gripped the frisbee tightly and stopped its rotation.

“I’m spent bro.” Clint ran a hand across the sweat pouring off his forehead and walked towards Bucky. “And your weird boyfriend has taken the frisbee hostage. I need food. Bucky, wanna get a hotdog from Nathan’s?” Clint’s piercings reflected the sun and Steve thought perhaps theirs was the weirdest friendship on the planet, but also perhaps the best friendship too. He looked at their faces and knew they were going to get through this, another page in their rich history to build upon.

“Naw, I’m cool. I ate that whole bag of Cool Ranch Doritos.” Bucky rubbed his belly and stuck it out, as much as you  _ can _ stick out a perfectly toned six-pack. It made Steve laugh. “And I ate Sam’s turkey sandwich, it was fucking delicious, but don’t tell him.” He bent over to grab a big stick out of the water as it washed ashore.

“I’m starving!” Scott tried to jump over Steve’s legs, for no reason at all, and totally tripped. “Oh shit Steve. Don’t know why I did that. The jumping or the tripping. Actually I’m pretty sure I tripped because I’m hungover and I need a hot dog. Sorry man.”

“Well Scott, get your new bestie Clint to buy you a weiner,” Bucky laughed and there was no malice, no underlying current of cruelty and Steve felt so much relief.

“It’s okay Bucky, I understand you don’t need my wieners anymore. No worries, Steve seems like he might wanna buy one though.” Clint laughed and punched Steve in the shoulder. That wasn’t going away anytime soon.

“Are we still talking about hot dogs?” Scott was swiveling his head back and forth and looked totally lost. “Because I want one with extra chili.”

“Yes.” Clint slung an arm around Scott and laughed, “we’re definitely still talking about hot dogs because I don’t want extra chili on my dick. C’mon let’s go.” He turned to wink at Steve. “Want me to bring you one back? Or some crinkle cut fries? They’re the stuff of legend.”

An image of his mom pulling out three crinkled one dollar bills and sending him to the cashier to pay for his own order of crinkle cut fries flashed back and he could smell them. He could smell them and he refused to feel sad. “Yeah, fries would be great. Thanks Clint.”

“Cool, you got it. And Bucky, I’m getting you one anyway. You can’t survive on a diet of Doritos. You’re a star athlete for christ’s sake!”, Clint laughed over his shoulder.

“But I love Doritos!”, Bucky hollered after them pointing his big stick as they trudged up the beach towards the boardwalk. “Doritos are the staple food of Olympians Clint! They’re all Michael Phelps eats when he gets the munchies!”

Bucky started carving giant words into the sand near the edge of the water with the branch but rocks kept getting in his way. Steve took a few steps off the towel to see what he was writing and thought about creating a time loop to watch his beautiful boyfriend, his something more, throwing the offending rocks into the ocean. Bucky launched each pebble, each stone, each rock far away from his words; away from his sentiment ‘I dig Steve’.

The sky above Bucky, above all of them, was brilliant blue with only a random cloud daring to mar its purity. But no matter how hard Steve tried to focus on the color of blue and the hue of the moment, he could see it in the background...the eyewall. The air is the calmest in the eye but it’s an illusion, it’s just winding itself up in a dense wall to slam into you full force with the power of its rain, unforgiving winds, and flying debris. Bucky jumped into the air as he launched a particularly big stone then spun around to smile at Steve. His back was to it then, to the eyewall, but Steve saw it there... looming. Bucky took his sharp stick and Steve saw the coarse brown fur of a hibernating bear. But his heart kept on carving, lines that meant something bigger, but the storm surge was coming. The water was pushed up by the driving force of the spiraling winds and Steve could only see the words washing away; the sea rising fast around Bucky’s long lean legs, engulfing the writing, eating it, tearing the stick from his hands and slicing his palm, guaranteeing there would be no more words. Bucky screaming out to Steve as the water rose past his waist and the sheets of rain whipped his hair across his eyes in deadly wet tentacles. Steve could do nothing to save him, his own water reaching his mouth and the sudden darkness obscuring his view. He could hear them, Bucky’s final screams for help, the sound of him shouting ‘Steve’ before the wind took it and feel his devastating failure as he let his own face sink into the surge.

The final perfect day before Alexander came back from Japan. The final perfect day before they had to deal with Brock. The final perfect day before they had to really talk about what the fuck happened. The final perfect day before they had to talk to Bucky’s dad, and Natasha, and Clint, and Sam and fuck...everyone. One more day, and all Steve could see was the black and grey wall looming over the first real light to illuminate his life in years, threatening to put it all out.

No!

No, no, no, no.

Steve brushed the last of the sand off his star covered trunks, Tony’s idea of a joke, and decided to be a stubborn bastard. If they had one last perfect day before everything went to shit then Steve was gonna make it a great fucking day! He was going to press that wall back with every ounce of strength he had and plant himself in the Earth, refusing to move. He could hold it back until tomorrow. He could hold it back for all of them. Tipping his head back Steve stared at the blue. It was cobalt with lead white and maybe a touch of cadmium orange. He blew out his air and turned to look at him, his scribe, and the cyclone was gone. Bucky was framed in glorious blue with summertime rolls dancing around his feet. He was sunshine, living and breathing, and they had today to live in the eye.

Steve threw the frisbee to the ground, kicked sand over the unbalanced pebbles and ran towards him. Jumping between the lines of his letters Steve grabbed Bucky around the waist and the stick fell as Steve spun him in clockwise circles, resetting his time loop.

“Oh my god Steve, you’re messing up my love note!” Bucky laughed, “look, it says ‘butt buddies!”

Steve looked down and his feet were indeed standing inside the giant ‘b’ in the word ‘butt’. “Bucky!” Steve dropped him and started scuffing out the word, “there’s kids here jerk!”

Bucky snorted. “You sound like Scott. You’re such a grandpa.”

Steve left ‘buddies’ and ‘I dig Steve’ but rubbed ‘butt’ out with his toes. As Bucky continued to laugh Steve realized that he didn’t care. It was truly because of the kids that Steve felt the need to scuff the letters that spelled out he was gay. Looking around at the hundreds of people he honestly didn’t care one bit if anyone over the age of fifteen saw what Bucky wrote. He was proud of it. He was proud he was gay and he was proud to be with Bucky. Sam’s warning came into his mind, but this wasn’t school and they didn’t know anyone here. This was Coney Island and this was the last perfect day. Grabbing Bucky around the waist he kissed him. Not a little kiss, not something shy or embarrassed, but a real kiss: the way Steve kissed him in the club while they were dancing, the way Steve kissed him when Clint left the room and Steve carefully unbuckled the collar for the first time, the way Bucky should always be kissed.

When he took a breath, Bucky bit his lip and raised his eyebrows. “I think you should be more concerned about kissing me like that in front of all these sweet innocent children than about ‘butt buddies’.

“Probably.”

“But you’re not?” Bucky leaned back and looked almost proud.

The answer was crystal clear. “I’m not.”

“Then do it again.”

*****

 

Steve had to admit the hot dog was delicious and Bucky somehow devoured his, even with the overflowing with chili and cheese, in three giant bites. Clint and Scott showed back up with bags and bags of hot dogs and fries for everybody. It was a nice gesture and maybe the first step in Clint’s junk food apology. The stunning smile on Bucky’s face after he wiped off all the chili and cheese and ketchup said Clint was on the right track.

Steve and Bucky were sitting next to each other in the sand and sharing the last of the crinkle cut fries, their day almost at it’s end. It was quite the sight to watch Tony and Macaulay figuring each other out in the water, the sweet blond jumping on Tony’s back as they both fell over in the crashing waves. Tony looked happy, he looked sober, he looked like he actually gave a shit, and those were all good looks on him. Everyone else was getting their ass kicked at volleyball by a bunch of college guys who kept spiking on Scott. It was a dick move, but they all had smiles on their faces so Steve thought it was perfect.

Bucky snatched up the last two fries and popped one in his mouth before pressing the final potato zigzag against Steve’s lips. His mom always gave him have the last fry too: waffle fries, curly fries, wedges, steak fries, and his favorite crinkle cuts. He took Bucky’s grin as he rubbed the fry back and forth against Steve’s mouth as a sign. It was time let Bucky in all the way; to show him the dark side of the patterns, the ivory black night after the cerulean day, the raging blizzard after their perfect indian summer afternoon, the reality of balance and inevitable asymmetry.

When Bucky allowed Steve to buckle the collar around his throat last night he was giving Steve the ultimate statement of trust. Disastrously it turned out, but they were building something; writing their own history and lining up their bricks carefully so their wall wouldn’t fall. Steve wanted Bucky to know.

Opening his mouth to allow Bucky to slide the fry between his lips Steve thought about the many ways Bucky was nourishing him, french fries being the least of them. “So, I have something I want to tell you.”

“Well that sounds foreboding”, Bucky chuckled and poked at Steve’s hip.

“Hey, that tickles”, Steve laughed. “No, nothing bad, Just something secret.”

“Are you a spy?”

“A bad one apparently since you already seem to know”

The feeling as Bucky ran his hand over Steve’s chest, the tips sliding easily across the fresh layer of sunscreen was intoxicating. Bucky touched a nipple as he whispered, “the Jason Bourne body gave it away.” A kiss landed on Steve’s shoulder and Bucky suddenly sounded serious. “You can tell me anything Stevie. You know that right?”

Steve knew it was true. Every particle in Bucky’s eyes, every micro-expression in the muscles of his face let Steve know he could say anything. “I do know that sweetheart. I’ve always felt like I could trust you, even before I knew you. But Bucky, after last night... how you trusted me... I fucked up and I’m so so sorry. I promised to take care of you and...”

“Stevie, that’s on both of us okay?”, Bucky interrupted. “And on the drinks plus it worked out okay. You got me through it, you got us both naked snuggles from Clint which, although totally fucked up in every way possible led to some sort of weird ass breakthrough in our fucked up friendship, so bonus.” They both laughed at that one because what else could they do? Bucky threaded his fingers in the spaces between Steve’s and squeezed. “We’ll do better next time okay?  _ Both _ of us. But yeah, I trust you Steve. You’ve already risked so damn much for me and you got me through the horrible thing we aren’t talking about, so yeah, you can tell me anything.”

“You can tell me anything too Buck.”

“Tomorrow Steve. Tomorrow. Please stay here on Incubus Island with me today.”

“You sure Brandon Boyd isn’t getting sick of us yet?”

“It’s  _ our  _ island and he’s  _ our _ guest. Plus we’re super cool so he digs us. Look, there’s half naked Brandon playing volleyball as we speak.” Bucky gestured at Sam.

“Wow, Brandon got really tan.”

“C’mon, go with it. I mean look at this empty beach!”

Steve leaned over and moved Bucky’s hair with his nose before kissing his left cheek. The swelling was gone but there were faint purple bruises along the ridge of his sharp cheekbone. He was so worried about Bucky, so goddamn worried, but there were only a few hours left in their final day so Steve didn’t let it spiral.

“The beach is beautiful Buck, and you’re beautiful.”

God, he was. Bucky was sunshine and tornados, rainbows and lava, pink roses and sharp thorns, glitter and steel. Maybe Steve was looking at everything wrong and missing the beauty imbalance brings to the bigger picture; the exhilaration as the wind blasts across your skin when your body is hurled up and down on The Cyclone? The words floated through his brain so easily, naturally… ‘this is what love feels like’...and he felt safe. Steve hadn’t felt this safe in years. He put his hands up in the air.

“Hey Buck, name something that starts with the letter ‘Q’.

“Hit the Quan.”

“God you're perfect.”

“Wanna do the dance? I know the dance.” Bucky did some intricate moves with his hands then swung his arms low in a compressed version.

Steve cracked up and shoved at Bucky’s hip hop shoulder. “Of course you know the dance.”

“Oh! Questlove rockin’ an Afro pick.”

“Because you named two things starting with the letter ‘Q’ without hesitating I know I'm making the right call here.”

“Quack!” Bucky leaned over and kissed him. “What do you wanna tell me?”

“Well, it’s something I haven’t told anybody…” Steve paused and knew that once he actually said the words out loud it meant he was really gonna do it. Saying it made it real.

“Why not?” Bucky shifted so his feet were touching Steve’s, both of them digging a hole under the sand and pushing up a tiny mountain together.

Steve really thought about that one. Why hadn’t he told Sam? Sure he told him enough to reassure him but no details, nothing concrete. Why? Then he realized that wasn’t odd for him at all. Laughing to himself he turned to Bucky and said, “I don’t tell most people most things.”

“You totally sound like a spy right now. I was right! Is that your secret Stevie? You’re a super top secret spy! Quantum of Solace! Oh, oh, oh, and there’s that character ‘Q’! That's why you’re asking about the Q words! It was a spy code!” Bucky kicked up a little sand with his Greek toes and it sprinkled down onto Steve’s shins; remnants of crushed shells, of things past, reminding him that life moves forward. Life transforms itself into new and beautiful things if you let it.

“Well, I  _ do _ sneak around doing graffiti…”

“In your black hoodie, spray painting all over the city like some sort of secret Graffiti Superhero spy.” Bucky knocked into Steve’s shoulder and stage whispered, “so you’re kinda a spy...an art spy!”

“I’m not spying on artists”, Steve laughed because Bucky was ridiculous.

“Well the sneaky part.”

Steve rolled his eyes because that still made no sense.

Bucky reached over and brushed the sand off Steve’s shins. “I bet you wear all black with your black hoodie.”

“As a matter of fact, I do.”

“Totally a spy.”

“That makes no sense whatsoever.” Steve slid his hand underneath the hem of Bucky’s shorts and undid the bottom pin.

“Too late. You’re already Quincy the Art Spy in my mind.”

Steve shook his head and smiled as he fastened ‘Support Steve & Bucky’ to the bottom of his own trunks. Even though Bucky was making a joke, Steve knew he wasn’t taking his words lightly. He knew Bucky wasn’t ignoring his thoughts or letting the meaning float by while he focused on James Bond and Jason Bourne. That wasn’t what Bucky was doing at all and Steve could feel that.

Bucky sniffed and started drawing zigzagging lines with his fingertips in the space between them. “I know why you hide it from Alexander, but why do you keep your art a secret from Sam and Tony?”

Steve outright laughed at that one, laughed because Bucky just knew. How the hell did he understand what to ask? How could he get to the core of Steve’s demons with a bad James Bond joke and particles of sand kicked into the air?

“That’s an easy one. Because if nobody knows, if nothing tangible exists, it can’t be taken away. Because Pierce is a dick. I’m supposed to like sports, my whole life is supposed to be sports. My mom...” Steve felt Bucky’s inhale as he said that. It was the first time he’d mentioned her and Bucky realized this was a rare moment… “um, my mom, she used to draw with me. She encouraged me, told me I was talented and had a natural gift. But Pierce never liked it so when they got married he pressured her to get me involved in sports, in ‘serious pursuits’, and she resisted for awhile. She did. But when she, um, got sick she couldn’t really fight him anymore and she started realizing Pierce wasn’t the good man she thought he was. But it was too late. There was no one else to take care of me, and then..then she was just gone.”

Bucky leaned across Steve and started drawing a curving line around the outside of his hips, down past his thighs, and around the tips of twenty toes buried in the sand. He rotated his beautiful shoulders to pull the line up past his own legs and back before twisting around to pull it around and connect it where he’d begun. Bucky made sure the two of them were safe in their circle on the sand.

It was such a simple and subtle sign of support and understanding but it was enough to give Steve the strength to finish. “So, um, after she died, art was out. No ‘son’ of his was gonna waste his time on ‘frivolous activities’ so that was it. He signed me up for every sport he liked, got me a private swim coach, and since I didn’t hate swimming I channeled all my energy there and buried the artist. But after a couple years I started drawing in secret. My own private rebellion. Sketching at first, then I started getting into Graffiti style work. And I couldn’t... I can’t work at Alexander’s so I started sneaking out to do street art. I got good pretty fast. I’m not trying to be stuck up about it, but like my mom said I had a knack. I’ve been doing it ever since.”

“And you’ve never told anyone?”

Steve shook his head.

“Why? There has to be more to it.”

“Yeah, I guess there is. Everything was taken away from me Buck. My tiny home in Brooklyn that I loved, my simple life with my mom, then my art, and then my mom altogether. I was forced to become this superstar: the best at swimming, the best grades, the best dressed, the most popular, the fucking Homecoming King! I don’t have anything left of her. Pierce got rid of everything like she never existed, and if it wouldn’t mess with his precious public persona I’m sure he’d throw me in the garbage too. I have one piece left. One single photograph I keep stashed under my bed and nothing else. Pierce ruined the rest of it. Pierce ruined everything. Graffiti is  _ mine _ . It’s just for  _ me _ . I’m my mother’s son when I’m painting and if I don’t tell anyone, they can’t take it away. Nobody can take the rest of her away.”

Bucky ran his fingers through the hair on Steve’s legs, making it stand up before quietly asking, “what’s your mom’s name?”

“Sarah”, Steve whispered, his breath hitching a little, because he hadn’t said her name out loud in years. Telling Bucky about her Steve could almost feel a part of his mother coming back to life.

“So why tell me Steve? Why show me your secret world under the bridge?”

“You want the ‘two tissue box’ answer or the ‘teenage boy who can’t express his feelings good’ answer?”

“Whatever Zoolander, how about both?”

“Because I haven’t had a real home since my mom met Pierce. And Bucky, I know we haven’t been doing this thing we’re doing for long at all but I swear to god you feel like home to me. When I walked around your house that first morning it woke me up in every way possible. Your house, it’s a home and I didn’t realize how much I missed that. The pictures on your mantle full of family and smiles and love compared to the  _ one _ wrinkled photograph hidden under my bed made me see clearly. You had Lucky Charms. Lucky Charms Bucky! I didn’t realize how far away from Lucky Charms I was until I saw that red box shoved in your cupboard! I hadn’t eaten them in so long that I didn’t even realize I  _ should  _ miss them. But they’re delicious and I want to eat them every single day! You feel safe Bucky and I want you to know the real me because I know you’d never take anything away from me. I don’t know how I know that, but I do and I don’t want to hide anything from you. I wanted to show you my art because you feel like home to me and home is where you hang things. And let’s get completely real Buck, I’m probably about to have no physical home either which is what I really was gonna tell you.”

“Steve...?”

“I’m gonna get out. If I stay something bad’s going to happen, something really bad and I’m not talking about Alexander hurting me...” He paused, because admitting his visions of blood and murder was laying it all on the line. Bucky let his hand tap the button on Steve’s trunks then softly kissed his earlobe so Steve kept right on spilling. “I can’t stand it there, it’s suffocating me and I can’t take it anymore. When he burned my arm I almost snapped. I thought things...bad things...so I’m figuring out how to get away from him before I do something stupid.”

“Good!” Bucky’s voice was solid. “Thank fucking god Steve! If that prick hits you one more time, I swear…”

“He won’t.””

“He won’t?”

“He can try.” Steve sounded a lot more aggressive than intended when he spoke those words.

“That sounds like you’re gonna kill him.”

“I’m not gonna kill him.”

Bucky really looked at him. “You sure Steve? There’s no way we could get conjugal visits, you can’t eat quesadillas in prison, orange isn’t your color...they lied, it’s not the new black...and I kinda like life on the outside with you.”

Steve could imagine killing him, easily, but that wasn’t his plan. Alexander had taken too much already and he wasn’t planning to hand him any more.

He watched Tony giggling and halfheartedly trying to push Macauley off of him as they kissed at the water’s edge. Maybe Bucky made everybody gay...

Bucky followed his gaze and snickered. “Those two are queer as fuck. So what’s the plan? What do we do?”

“I have no idea, but I’ve been talking to Fury and he’s working on scholarship possibilities and that’s about as far as we’ve gotten. Tony said he’d help me figure out the legal stuff. I’m supposed to bring fish tacos to his house after school tomorrow so we can talk about it. I also think I need to talk to your dad again.” Steve took a breath and felt anxiety bubbling in his stomach. “I want to be out before Thanksgiving. I can’t spend one more year eating a catered meal with kale salad and a turkey that doesn’t even make the air smell good. I can’t do it.”

“Well, let’s add it to the quickly expanding ‘Horrible Shit To-Do List’. Okay? We  _ are _ gonna figure this out,  _ all _ of it, even my massive amount of bullshit that we aren’t talking about. I promise. So don’t do anything stupid till we figure it out. I’m speculating you’re concerned you might lose your shit and punch Alexander two-hundred times in the fucking face, which he totally deserves, but… ok, no... goddammit! I  _ really really really _ want you to beat the holy fuck out of him... but don’t. That’s a no-go. Don’t do that. You’re smarter than me so plan something smart instead. You plan, I’ll bake us some quiche. I don’t actually know how to make quiche so I’ll get my dad to make us quiche and I’ll pick us up some Quaker Oats and some Queso dip. So, my plan goes like this: I’m handling the food, you’re handling the plan.” 

Bucky reached over and pushed Steve’s mirrored sunglasses to the top of his head then did the same with his pink ones, their plastic frames doing nothing to hold back his wild waves. “And Steve, I’ve gotta be honest here, that was actually a  _ three _ tissue box answer. I just went through more imaginary Kleenex than I did when stupid Rose fucked over stupid self-sacrificing Jack. That fucking quadrilateral could have held them both! MythBusters proved that shit! I’d never leave you in the icy cold water by the way. Even if you have to lay right on top of me you  _ are _ getting on that fucking piece of wood! Now tell me, I’m dying to hear the ‘teenage boy who can’t express his feelings good’ answer.”

When Steve looked close he could see a few tiny freckles popping up on the bridge of Bucky’s nose and he wanted to kiss each one; to chart their pattern and see what constellation they created. “Baby,  _ I’ve _ gotta be honest here, I don’t even remember the question.” Steve chuckled and kissed the freckle on the very tip. “I distracted myself with my own deep response.”

“Instead of ‘squirrel’ does your mind go ‘deep thought’?” Bucky knocked his knuckles softly against Steve’s temple and said, “I know you’re secretly a philosopher in there too; thinkin’ about the mysteries of life like Plato and Aristotle and So-crates. Don’t think you can hide that from me Keanu.” Bucky’s eyes crinkled in the corners but there was a sudden seriousness to them when he whispered, “the question was...why me? Why tell  _ me _ ?”

“Because I really, really, really like you.” Leaning outside their circle for the briefest second Steve snatched the strap of his black backpack and dragged it across the warm particles, careful not to break Bucky’s line. “And since you somehow figured out I’m in a secret society with So-crates and George Carlin, and because your ‘Q’ vocabulary is extensive, I want to give you something. You should know I’m going against direct orders here”, Steve laughed. “Your bestie Clint holds a strong anti-poetry stance and Sam gave me a very stern lecture on moving too fast but I don’t think I care.” Unzipping the pocket with the accidental red stripe Steve pulled out his well worn sketchbook, flipped to the poem, and placed it on Bucky’s bare knees inside their sandy bubble. “I wrote this for you last Monday, after I was a total asshole.”

“Quite the asshole…”, Bucky smirked, with something like wonder in his eyes, then started reading.

Bucky usually moved fast, a comet streaking behind the Northern Lights, but he slowed his forward motion as his eyes tracked each line. Time was taken to touch each word, a tactile exploration allowing the deeper meaning of each combination of letters to saturate his fingerprints. His hand trailed over the poem several times before landing on the final line with at loving caress.

  
  


The Power of Strange

 

A transparent ghost sauntering through the halls.

A crumbling brick hiding deep within a strong facade.

A blank canvas of emptiness

not purity, not potential.

But a void.

 

But you hold a special power

being Strange.

This power let you peek under my door 

and make my skin opaque.

When groups of ten or twelve or three

walked by right in front of me

you stopped, 

and saw my solid form.

 

You hold a special power

being Strange.

This power let you look between the mortar,

to see that even though I seemed strong like the rest

I was crumbling inside.

My core was full of cracks

but still, you saw beauty

and took the time to skillfully repair my pieces.

 

You hold a special power

being Strange.

A camel brush loaded with brilliant color

you took the void and showed me the lie of it all.

Thick paint splashed across my skin,

red blue orange and green.

Transforming what was nothing

into a new masterpiece.

 

A solid man walking down these halls.

A solid brick supporting your weight.

A life full of color, potential realized.

I’m so thankful you took the time to see,

 

That I’m strange too.

 

It seemed quiet when Bucky finally spoke and Steve felt the line in the sand surrounding them sealing in their air; the hiss of pressurized oxygen flooding their perfect space helmet and removing them from the swirling patterns all around them. All that remained was Steve and his starboy, travelling through space on their strange adventure. It was blissfully calm.

“This is about us?” Bucky whispered, but it sounded loud in their secret space.

“Yes.”

There was a pause then and a strange anomaly flew past their visor, lighting their faces in the vastness of space as Bucky revealed his truth. “I really, really, really like you too Steve.”

Steve chuckled and smelled the coconut of Bucky’s skin. “I pour out my soul in overly-romantic philosophical poetry and that’s all I get, hmm?” His hand slid easily up the path of Bucky’s spine as the anomaly rounded behind them.

Bucky’s fingers left the final line ‘that I’m strange too’ then transferred to the back of Steve’s neck, rubbing the tiny hairs there and making a shiver run up his spine. Bucky licked his lips and revealed a sly smile. “That was the quintessential poem Steve.”

“Oh my god Bucky.” Steve snorted and could feel himself turning red, but Bucky gently squeezed his neck and transported them to a new world.

“Actually Steve, um,” his face looked hesitant but his fingers didn’t hint at that emotion; his fingers felt certain as they traced the line of Steve’s jaw and lovingly squeezed the edge of his ear. “I’ve got a very ‘Non-Teenage Boy Response’ for you...something I’ve been feeling...but I haven’t said it because it’s crazy, really crazy and this week’s been unbelievably insane... like Arkham asylum insane. Other people keep fucking everything up but this poem...jesus christ Steve... it makes me feel like it’s just us. Like none of that shit matters when it’s just the two of us. I feel like we can do anything together and I’ve never been down this road before so forgive my stumbling and rambling...” He took a deep breath like he was preparing to jump off a cliff. “I’m falling in love with you. Oh fuck it…” Bucky looked right into Steve’s eyes and smiled. “I’ve already fallen. It’s just a fact... I love you.”

There are moments in life you’ll always remember; paintings hung on the walls of your mind that capture the perfectness of the memory. Paintings where the mind idealized the color of the sky, increased the purity of the white sand, or added perfectly formed palm trees lit by impossibly mesmerizing sunsets. That wouldn’t be how Steve painted this memory. He had no need for the nonsense in the periphery and no desire to falsify the perfection of the moment. He’d paint Bucky’s face  _ exactly _ how he looked when he spoke those three words.

Steve would stretch an oversized canvas by hand, sanding each joint and nailing the corners precisely at ninety degrees. Each staple would be flush and the gesso would be applied in horizontal lines, then doubled with the vertical. Five by five feet of pure white to capture a close-up view of Bucky’s magical expression. Leaning his body back and forth Steve would drag his sable brush across the canvas to create the cotton candy pink and caribbean blue undertones of Bucky’s skin in long curving brushstrokes. Rolling his palette knife against the surface he’d form the impasto chocolate waves of Bucky’s salty hair disappearing over the edges. Mixing tiny amounts of cadmium orange into the darker midnight blue rings surrounding Bucky’s irises, Steve would perfectly match their shade. Most of all, Steve would make the light bend and disappear into the beckoning galaxies of Bucky’s pupils with rare vantablack. Steve would paint the memory to match his reality because in that moment those were the only things that existed.

When Steve let his own hand drift up and overlap Bucky’s he felt each one of their fingers line up with perfect symmetry. Steve leaned over to smile against Bucky’s left cheek and the only thing he saw was pure pink skin and brilliant blue sky as he whispered, “I love you too.”

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 14 Trivia Answers:  
> 1\. Why was the idea of Bucky with a moustache funny? Sebastian just filmed a movie about Tonya Harding and played her moustached husband Jeff.  
> 2.What's the connection between Buffy the Vampire Slayer and our Avenger friends? Joss Whedon was the creator of the series and directed Age of Ultron. Opinion: Spike or Angel? Spike all the way baby.  
> 3.Why's it funny that I referenced the song 'Disintegration' by The Cure? That was the song in Ant Man that they accidentally turned on during the briefcase fight scene.  
> Bonus: I'm basing Macaulay and Chloe from two characters from a specific film, any clue? The movie is 'Party Monster' about the awesome 90's club scene. Macaulay Culkin was the lead and was ADORABLE and Chloe Sevigny played Gitsie. 
> 
> Chapter 15 Trivia: If you comment the right answers I will send you virtual yumminess and mad respect.  
> 1\. In the part where Tony drops the cheesecake on the floor after yelling "let them eat cake?" what famous person am I referring to?  
> 2\. Why is it funny that Bucky mentions Michael Phelps in regards to eating Doritos when he has the munchies?  
> 3\. What movie am I referencing when I have Bucky pronounce Socrates 'So-crates'?
> 
> Chapter 15 Playlist:  
> 1\. Incubus- Punch Drunk  
> 2\. Radiohead- Codex  
> 3\. Incubus- Melodies and Monuments  
> 4\. Sleeping with Sirens- Satellites  
> 5\. Rufus Wainwright- Poses  
> 6\. Rihanna-Love on the Brain  
> 7\. Lou Reed- Satellite of Love  
> 8\. Lana Del Rey- American  
> 9\. Lou Reed- Perfect Day  
> 10\. Janes Addiction- Ocean Size  
> 11\. Lana Del Rey- Love  
> 12\. Jem- Maybe I'm Amazed
> 
> Thank you all for the wonderful comments! Please keep them coming. I've gotten a lot of cool ideas from you guys and every time I see my inbox has something in it I jump up and down. I have a few drawing commissions and I'm writing a short story for the upcoming Reverse Captain America Big Bang on Tumblr, so next update will be a little longer than usual. But I'm not going anywhere. Promise.
> 
> Come talk to me on:
> 
> [Instagram](https://www.instagram.com/jessielucidart/)
> 
> [Tumblr](http://lucidnancyboy.tumblr.com)
> 
> [youtube](https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCjADIMzQjvmnAs-nGoSG0JQ)
> 
> CHEERS!


	16. Dead Muppets

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Howdy. "Misfits" is under revision and this is a brand new rewrite of Chapter 16, which has now been split into two Chapters with 26 new pages of content between them. Chapters 1-6 have been revised and posted already. I'm plugging away at the rest and will keep you updated as I post the new chapters. Phew, complicated. 
> 
> This is all thanks to my kickass beta Lorien (drjezdzany) who is a gift! You should check out her art on Tumblr. [Drjezdzany](http://drjezdzany.tumblr.com/%20)  
> You can also find her on Ao3  
> [Lorien](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lorien/pseuds/Lorien%20)
> 
> For the full emotional impact there is one song that I recommend playing along as you read the scene. It is cued in the chapter. “Junkhead” by Alice in Chains.
> 
> I also want to thank my second beta- unicornandbacon on Tumblr. They gave me so many brilliant ideas for this chapter. I’m so grateful for them!
> 
> Be mindful of the tags this chapter. The rollercoaster is cranking up the big hill and getting ready to take you for an emotional ride. Cheers :)

                                                        

 

So, you’re surrounded by bubbly love, first love, where you’re loved right back, and it’s flapping around your face like a zillion happy butterflies, and you feel like you’re dancing even when you’re just kissing him slowly, and it’s _awesome_...then BAM! You’ve got no choice but to shut the limo door on the monarchs, swallowtails, and gorgeous fluttering Steve to climb up your crumbling Brooklyn steps to Suckville. As Bucky watched the red tail lights stop at the end of the block he wanted to run after them full speed, feeling the sand sliding around inside of his sneakers and creeping up the crack of his ass, until he finally leapt on the trunk like a lunatic so that he could climb back into the happy bubbles.

When the lights turned the corner, Bucky sighed because reality bites; it bites hard and leaves Winona Ryder and Ethan Hawke shaped teeth marks all over the fucking place. If Bucky lifted up his shirt, he was one-hundred percent positive that there would be chomps appearing at an accelerated rate all over his stomach. He could almost feel them.

He was about to slide the key into the Door of Doom, but before Bucky could make first contact, it was whipped wide open and he found himself face to face with Natasha.

“Upstairs. Now.”

He found himself face to face with _pissed_ Natasha.

“What the hell, sis? Can’t you see that I’m mourning the end of my perfect day? I was planning on standing here for at least ten more minutes...probably fifteen...feeling outrageously sorry for myself.”

But Natasha was _not_ having it. She leaned out, yanked him by the arm, and corralled him towards the stairs. By the time she’d pushed him past the foyer, the palm trees had turned into plain plaster walls, and by the time Bucky had hit the fifth step, his Piña Colada (with the juicy, yellow triangle of fresh pineapple) had been stolen by the Reality Ogre, and, as she’d marched him down the hall, the gorgeous Brandon Boyd had morphed into a much-less-chill five-foot-four redhead in a silky, pink robe.

Bucky grabbed the doorframe when she tried to push him inside her room, yelling for tropical assistance, “Brandon...come back!”

“I need to talk to you. Stop being a weirdo!”

He looked up, and he looked down, but Brandon’s tan chest was nowhere to be found. Bucky cracked up, because his poetry fucking sucked. Now Steve...that big bundle of love could write a fucking poem!

Bucky was so damn tired, and now he was fucking annoyed. It was still Sunday, and it had been his excellent plan to stay on Incubus Island, happily tying puka shells around Steve’s neck and peeling him out of his flowered shirt...or at least jerking off to visions of tying puka-shells around Steve’s neck while peeling off that flowered shirt to reveal Bucky’s sweaty, tan personal Adonis...dammit! He was gonna stay in that beautiful place until his stupid alarm would wake him up tomorrow morning at the asscrack of dawn; nine more hours of mental paradise until the dreaded convo with his dad about everything awful, horrible, and bad. Bucky had plans! He was gonna sleep in his kickass, vintage blue Jams with the orange flowers, throw on his orange Raybans, spread out his Spongebob towel on his mother fucking bed, and dream about Steve free climbing a palm tree to get them fresh coconuts. Seriously, Bucky was already getting a chub just thinking about how sexy Steve’s ass would look with his legs wrapped tightly around the trunk...

Natasha backed up and got a running start before plowing into Bucky’s back, ripping his hands from the door and destroying his X-Men First Class amazing fucking plan. He felt like Charles on the goddamn beach...completely fucked. What’s next? Was his hair gonna fall out too? She slammed the door, and Bucky dropped his sandy ass onto her pristine bed, gave her a grumpy Elvis sneer, and rubbed his ass around for good measure!

“Seriously, Natasha, what the hell’s wrong with you? I was just mindin’ my own business pouting on the doorstep, remembering how Steve’s melting bomb pop had dripped down his wrist, then had rolled over his bicep until the blue and red lines of sugar ran onto his chest, where I got the privilege of licking…”

“TJ Campbell dropped by this afternoon,” Natasha interrupted, because she’s horrible. “Apparently, he found your phone... _somehow_.”

Goddammit. Bucky flopped back and threw his hands over his face. Goddammit, goddammit, goddammit!

“I’m not dealing with any of this shit ‘till tomorrow, Natasha. Didn’t you get the memo? I sent it to buzzkillnat@gmail.com with the red flag! The red flag means ‘high importance’ FYI, and since you aren’t responsible enough to check your email in a timely fashion, let me bring you up to speed. It said: ‘Do not disturb. Bucky Barnes is on vacation.”

He could feel her hovering at his feet. He could tell her hands were on her hips. He could tell that she was tap tap tapping her teeny weenie toes, because that’s what she did when she got like this. Bucky squeezed his eyes shut and clicked the heels of his sandy Chucks three times, hoping a rogue tornado would transport him back to the land of dreams where Steve was busy chopping open coconuts with machete. His brain couldn’t handle anything else right now...he was so fucking tired.

“He said to tell you, and I quote, ‘Don’t worry about Rumlow’. Apparently, ‘someone’ tipped Dad off about a gun in Brock’s locker and he’s being expelled.”

“He what?” Bucky shot back off the bed and stumbled right into her boobs, because what!? What! What!!!???

“Oh, I would’ve told you sooner but _apparently_ Steve was having too much fun getting popsicle juice licked off of his nipples to bother turning on his phone. I did manage to get ahold of Clint... after three hours...but he felt it would be better if I ‘waited to tell you personally’ when you got home...no further explanation provided I might add.”

“A gun?”

“Apparently.”

“A gun!?”

She took a step back, and damn, she looked mad; capital M Mad. “Tell me what’s going on!”

Then she did it, tried to take Bucky down with her cinematic ‘you will tell me everything that I want to know’ stare. It was a powerful force, drawn from the ghost of Darth Vader, just like Adam Driver in that intense but super weird scene in ‘The Force Awakens’. The one where he’s doing a lot of serious acting with his eyebrows, jaw, and fugly good looks, while Rey’s z-snappin’ like ‘oh no you don’t, bitch, you ain’t gettin’ in my mind!’, while she _also_ does a lot of serious acting with her eyebrows, jaw, and badass good looks and...anyway, Bucky was totally Rey right now. Maybe he should ask Natasha to put up his hair to make him into ‘three-bun-Rey’? He could totally pull that off! He was about to z-snap and say ‘do my hair you will!’, but Bucky realized how serious his sister looked and decided that Kylo Ren probably wouldn’t be into styling kickass man buns.

Anyway, there was no fucking way that he was getting into _any_ of it with Natasha right now. Not the shit with Brock. Not the shit with Frank. Not the shit with TJ. Not the shit with Pierce. And _definitely_ not the shit with Clint! Not going there. Not tonight. Nope. So Bucky used the force to _force_ his eyelids to open even wider (ha, Star Wars jokes) even though they were watering like crazy. He couldn’t see anything, and it hurt like a mother fucker. There was no way in hell that he was telling her where to find Luke!

Kylo Ren finally gave in, and Bucky was pretty sure that he was blind.

“Fine, be that way,” Natasha snapped. “And since you’ve decided that I’m nothing more than your naive personal secretary, allow me to pass on another message before I fetch your coffee. TJ insisted that you text him as soon as you got home. He said it at least seven times.”

Jesus Christ, what the actual fuck was going on? Bucky was glad that he couldn’t see Natasha’s face through his watery Jedi eyes, because she was about to get nasty, and honestly, he was startin’ to feel a bit nasty himself. Janet Jackson’s ‘Nasty Boys’ popped into his head even though it made absolutely no sense. Weird? Yes. Surprising? No. Bucky would’ve laughed if he wasn’t so goddamn frustrated and completely and totally fucking freaked out. Nothing making sense seemed to be the new trend. Hop on the bandwagon, everyone’s doing it!

Janet got nasty in his brain, so Bucky hissed, “why the hell would I text him?”

_‘Oh you Nasty boys…’_

“Why the hell would he have your phone?” Natasha hissed right back.

_‘Cause privacy is my middle name, my last name is control, no my first name ain’t baby. It’s Janet, Miss Jackson if you’re nasty.’_

First Celine and now fucking Janet! There was no longer any doubt: Bucky was completely losing his goddamn mind. He moonwalked backwards, spread his arms wide, and flopped back onto her soft comforter. “It’s not what you think...whatever you’re thinking.”

_‘Who’s that thinkin’ nasty thoughts?’_

Natasha stood there for a minute staring at him, doing the little tipping thing with her head that meant that she was _maybe_ considering being slightly less mad at him. She tipped it the other way before grabbing the basket of clean laundry off the top of her dresser and dropping it next to him on the bed.

“You know what Bucky,” she sighed. “I don’t know what to think. You and Steve completely disappeared Friday night, I didn’t hear from you all weekend, dad was freaking that you didn’t check in once, _then_ you show up tonight with a bruise on your cheek, plus my _boyfriend_ started acting weird yesterday...my boyfriend who was with _you_ ...my boyfriend who has a seriously twisted past with _you_. You know damn well that I waited to get together with him until you found Steve and stopped pining, but... dammit Bucky, just tell me what’s happening.”

As she ranted, her hands precisely folded a bunch of tiny leggings into perfect little squares that she organized into perfect little piles next to Bucky’s thighs. When she ran out of leggings, she started rolling tiny t-shirts into weird little burritos and lining them up in a neat row on his stomach; a pink one, a striped one, a blue one, a white one. What wasn’t he telling her? _Everything_. She was completely in the dark, and Bucky didn’t know why he’d put her there. Something that he did know? He had no clue how to fix it. Something else that he knew for sure? He wanted to go to sleep.

Another burrito, this one lavender, landed on top of his bellybutton and Bucky knew that she wasn’t really mad, she was just worried. No doubt, she was ripping him a new asshole, but the calm and careful way that she was using his abs as a dresser drawer betrayed her.

“Then, to top it all off,” she huffed, “TJ Campbell shows up _here_ ...made the drive all the way to Brooklyn in his brand new, metallic silver BMW M6 when he could’ve simply picked up the phone and called me, or, god forbid, waited until you showed up at school tomorrow.” She shook her hair and gathered it on top of her head, securing it with a rubber band from her wrist. It made her look like Pebbles; Mad Pebbles ready to hit Bam Bam with a club, or something like that. “Oh, guess why I know so much about his car? Because he couldn’t trust the Brooklyn scum to keep their thieving hands off of his one-hundred-and-twenty-thousand dollar BMW for ten minutes in front of our house. He insisted that I put on my shoes and run outside like a good little girl so that I could sit in his car while he spewed political doublespeak at me about Rumlow! So you tell me Bucky, what _exactly_ am I thinking?”

“We went to the beach today,” Bucky hummed, stretching his arms over his head and thinking about guns. Guns and Ammo, Gun control, Lana Del Rey and Guns and Roses. Axl looked so fucking hot in the ‘Sweet Child of Mine’ video. Bucky preferred snake hips Guns to any other kind of Guns that he wasn’t gonna think about. Axl, Axl, Axl in the white short shorts with the red roses on his dick...

Natasha switched to folding leg warmers, because in her mind Flashdance was still the shit, then said, “Classic avoidance technique? That’s your plan?”

“Yeah, with a side of distraction.” Bucky smiled and his heart hurt, because this whole situation was...Axl, Axl, Axl with the single nipple ring, Axl... He paused for a second before he told Natasha one real thing. “Steve told me that he loves me.”

She chuckled and shook her head in defeat; the light side of the force prevailing again. “Top notch distraction, Bucky. I’ve gotta hand it to you on that one.” Crawling onto the bed next to her piles of tiny clothes, she tried to pull her fingers through Bucky’s hair and laughed. “This is completely tangled.”

“Beach. Duh.”

“And you smell like fish and hot dogs.” She propped her chin on her hand, gave up on his hair, and asked point blank, “Do you love him?”

“Yeah, I was the one who said it first.” Bucky rolled towards her, completely messing up every single carefully folded pile and unrolling all the burritos between them. She didn’t say a word about the destruction as Bucky wrapped his fingers around her soft, red ponytail for once. “I hear that you lost your virginity to my best friend. Are we gonna talk about that?”

She hummed a long note that turned into a weird chuckle, which meant that she did not, under any circumstances, want to answer that question. A vague “Maybe later." was her only response.

“What? Was he awful or something?” Bucky squished up his face and seriously doubted that. Every single time that Clint had touched him (in any capacity) there had been absolutely nothing awful about it.

“No," she blurted. “It was something special. He was just weird this weekend. I think that we just need to see each other. I don’t know.”

Yeah, they needed to see each other like _now_ , because it _was_ weird as hell that Bucky had been the one straddling Clint’s one-hundred-percent naked body this morning. It was definitely bad brotherly etiquette to rub his balls all over his sister’s new boyfriend; even if it was done in anger. God, when did his life turn into an episode of ‘The Vampire Diaries’? Everything was so fucking confusing that he couldn’t even tell who was Stefan and who was Damon...was he Elena? Then who was Natasha? His life was _worse_ than ‘The Vampire Diaries’.

Bucky decided to go with the one thing he could tell Natasha that he was absolutely positive about. “It’s gonna be okay with Clint. He really likes you. We had some drama this weekend, so just cut him a little slack right now, okay?”

“Drama?”

“A _lot_ of drama. I think he should be the one to tell you about it first.”

She sighed and rolled towards the nightstand, before saying, “I’m getting really sick of that line.”

There was a part of Bucky that wanted to open his mouth and spit out every single detail of every single secret all over her pink robe... a part of him that wanted to shove Clint and Natasha into a room and chain the door until they’d hashed everything out...a part of him that wanted to stand in the middle of the cafeteria tomorrow and scream, ‘What the fuck is going on!?’...but instead he said, “I’m really tired, Natasha.”

“I know.” She shifted to grab Bucky’s phone off of her nightstand, then tossed it on the comforter. “Just get it over with.”

His space unicorn case was staring up at him, mocking him with its space travel, rainbow dreams of freedom. Rubbing a finger across the periwinkle space helmet-horn, Bucky imagined Steve majestically straddling the turquoise unicorn with the yellow star emblazoned across its chest. Maybe Steve could get a matching star on his chest too? Bucky would wrap his arms around Steve’s narrow waist as they flew past the planets and stars, spewing their rainbow trail out of their unicorn’s ass far across the universe. Bucky would make one improvement though: instead of the silly video game ‘Space Unicorn’ theme song, Axl Rose would be standing on the rings of Saturn in all of his glam rock glory, belting out ‘Sweet Child of Mine’ as they orbited the planet.

But _nooo_...Bucky had to text TJ Campbell about Brock Rumlow and a real fucking gun, because somehow that was his life. Scrolling through his contacts, Bucky was surprised that he still had the number. He hadn’t used it since tenth grade, and he’d never even gotten the chance to give him a silly name…

 

Bucky: Wht the fuck’s goin on?

TJ: hi 2 u 2.

Bucky: how’d u get my phone?

TJ: found it in hall on way back to dance after we got u in the car

Bucky: …

TJ: u still there?

Bucky: I don’t remember a lot of it

TJ: u ok?

Bucky: why did u want me 2 txt?

TJ: 2 make sure natasha told u about our friends. We can talk 2morrow IN PERSON

Bucky: r u serious right now?

TJ: very. U r all set. So don’t talk about _anything_ to _anyone._

Bucky: i don’t understand

TJ: u & Steve meet me & Frank 2morrow morning after ur practice @ top of locker room stairs

Bucky: surprised u didn’t say under the bleachers

TJ: …

Bucky: sorry, that was a dick thing 2 say. Rough few days. sorry

TJ: just meet me. Don’t say anything

Bucky: k

 

Bucky dropped the phone into Natasha’s pile of cotton burritos and moaned, “Hey Natalia?”

“Yeah?” She resorted to trying to smooth down his hair instead of running her fingers through it; and while it wasn’t nearly as soothing as the full five-finger pull through, it was better than nothing.

“Can I sleep in here tonight? And by sleep, I mean, can I close my eyes right this second and drift off to Neverland Ranch with Michael, Janet, and Peter Pan in the middle of your weird laundry burritos and leg warmers?”

She kissed the top of his head and chuckled, “Of course you can weirdo, but you have to change out of these clothes because I’m not sleeping next to fish and hotdogs.”

“Do I have to?" Bucky whined. “It’s easier to pretend that I’m still there when I can smell it.”

There was a pause, and a dramatic increase in hair stroking, before she whispered, “Bucky, you have to come back sometime.”

Kicking off his sandy shoes and burying his face in her messed up laundry, he mumbled, “I’m not back in the office ‘till tomorrow. Remember? You’ve really gotta check your inbox.”

If Bucky breathed really deeply, he could still smell the hot dogs, the fish, the coconut sunscreen, and Steve. He really loved the smell of Steve…

Inhaling the last remnants of Coney Island, Bucky whispered, “I’m still on vacation.”

*****

 

 

When Bucky had woken up with a fresh brain...scratch that...when he’d woken up with a foggy brain that had only managed to reach fifty percent power even _after_ his scrumptious Caramel Cocoa Cluster Frappuccino, he’d still been holding out hope that everything was a sick joke; that class clown TJ Campbell had set up the most elaborate April Fool’s prank in the History of April Fool’s pranks (even though it was October), and that he was gonna leap out at Bucky with a can of silly string in each hand and scream ‘got ya!’ as soon as Bucky got to school. That snappily dressed jokester had even gotten badass Frank Castle in on his mischievous plan (because the notorious son of a mob boss was known for his whimsical sense of humor)... not. Sadly, Bucky couldn’t quite picture Frank enjoying neon ribbons of silly string, which was really putting a damper on the April Fool’s illusion.

On the drive to school Bucky squished himself as far as he could into the corner of the backseat, shooting knowing looks back and forth with Clint, who was equally squished in the opposite corner. Natasha kept eyeballing both of them while she was ‘putting on her makeup’ in the little mirror on the visor. She always knew when something was up... _always_ . But none of them _said_ shit, or _asked_ shit, or did anything other than weirdly glancing at each other like they _knew_ shit. It was shitty. Bucky really wanted to climb into his Frappuccino and swim around in the icy coffee delight like he was still at the beach. Not that icy coffee was anything like the cool water of the Atlantic, but it was as close as he could fucking get at this very uncomfortable moment.

His dad didn’t say shit about guns or expulsions, instead pressing Bucky for details about his weekend. This required elaborate story telling skills that Bucky’s brain was in no way capable of at the current moment. Slurping his frapp in double time, he amused himself with fantastical answers to all his dad’s questions: ‘Yes dad, I had a great time! Steve and I played Uno and Scrabble for hours and hours, then drank hot cocoa with extra marshmallows while we watched a ‘Harry Potter’ marathon. We decided that Steve’s Patronus is a golden retriever, and mine’s a sexy wolf wearing a red bandana. We _definitely_ didn’t go to a gay bar, get wasted, experiment with BDSM, have a three way naked sword fight, and grab each others dicks in the Atlantic Ocean. And I _certainly_ didn’t let Steve put a leather collar around my neck and fuck me so hard that I ended up floating around in subspace somewhere next to Neptune. Oh, and there’s _no way_ that I woke up yesterday sandwiched between two completely naked guys with very substantial hard-ons. Nope. Just boys being boys playing Poker and betting with Skittles. It was a super duper good time dad! Steve and I just really love board games!’

He snorted into his straw and the whip cream exploded out of the plastic lid to land all over his plaid pants. This, of course, made Bucky laugh even harder, because maybe everything _was_ a fucking joke...

Bucky was pretty much naked in the locker room, sliding his itty bitty swim trunks up over his ass, when Steve pushed through the door with a distinctly non-joking flourish and erased the hilarity of whip cream bombs with his super serious face. No-joke Steve sat down on the bench and frowned, putting a definitive end to _all_ humorous possibilities, which totally sucked. There was no ‘goodmorning, sweetheart’, no covert ass pinch, not even a simple, but sweet, ‘hi babe’. No-joke Steve didn’t make a peep when he pushed his boring black iphone, with the boring grey case, into Bucky’s hand.

He didn’t want to look at the screen, but it was obvious that Serious-Steve wanted Bucky to destroy the last of his illusions. Whatever. Bucky plopped down on the bench and let out the world’s longest sigh two inches from Steve’s face. He wanted to sigh for at least two more minutes, but he ran out of air. Stupid.

The first text started with ‘Frank Castle’...and yep, he shouldn’t have looked. No text from Frank Castle was gonna include fun novelty items like Whoopie Cushions, Invisible Ink, or trick flowers that squirted water. If the texts weren’t talking about gum that made your tongue turn black, Bucky wanted no part of them. Fuck that shit.

Instead, Bucky _pretended_ to read while he pondered buying a new phone case for Serious-Steve. A brilliant artist like Creative-Steve shouldn’t have the most boring phone case in all of New York...and by ‘New York’, Bucky meant New York _state_ ...because really? Plain grey? It made Bucky feel like he was holding a sad little rain cloud in his hand. Maybe he could order up a custom case with a picture of ‘Welcome to the Jungle’ Axl plastered on it? Of course, he’d go with the original Axl, where his red, ratted Aquanet hair was sticking out from underneath his sexy leather cop hat! That had been the best Era of Axl _for sure_ . Bucky would zoom in on that shit, nice and tight, so that Steve could _really_ appreciate the single nipple ring. Hell yeah, everyone needs a daily dose of Axl Rose nipple worship in their life!

Apparently, Bucky was taking too long _not_ reading whatever horrors were contained on the screen of depression, because Serious-Steve tapped it to make it light up again. Lame. Bucky whined internally when Steve scooched over enough that their thighs were touching; skin against denim. Why couldn’t it be skin on skin? Bucky could _really_ use some skin on skin right now; some deliciously slippery, sweaty skin sliding across his stomach as Steve sucked and fucked and...damn damn damn damn damn. Bucky begrudgingly squinted at the tiny words and saw a shockingly familiar thread of cryptic texts; except these puppies had been sent at five o’clock in the fucking morning. Why in the hell had Frank waited until the roosters of Manhattan had started crowing to pass on his good news? And why the hell hadn’t Steve texted Bucky right away? Oh, probably the same reason that Bucky hadn’t texted Steve last night. The subject wasn’t exactly something that you could sum up with a confused-face emoji. Maybe the gun emoji followed by eighteen poop emojis could have summed it up?

Reading through the vague orders to ‘keep your mouth shut’ Bucky had immense difficulty maintaining the prank idea; but still he tried, oh my god did he try (sing it Linda Perry). Even when Brock didn’t show up to throw his gym bag around the locker room while bragging about ‘all the pussy that he got last night’, Bucky still clung to a last little sliver of hope. But that hope was quickly dashed when Brock _still_ wasn’t there to bitch about Parker fucking up the two-hundred meter. Watching Scott annihilate Parker in the water, and hearing the silence, Bucky’s hope meter hit empty and the last of his illusions were running on fumes. Bucky glanced at the corner of the pool deck and realized that Brock hadn’t shown up to push him violently up against the cold glass so that he could grind his hard dick on...stop...stop.

Fuck. Bottom line; when Brock didn’t show up, Bucky had to admit that it was October tenth, not April Fool’s.

Frank never showed up either, and while Fury ranted about ‘responsibility’ and ‘teamwork’, Bucky felt his stomach dropping lower and lower with each passing second. He and Steve both swam like shit, he and Steve both kept staring at the locker room door, he and Steve were both quiet, and Bucky _hated_ every second of it. By the time Fury sent them to get changed, the joke was one-hundred-and-fifty percent over. Walking down the steps to the locker room felt like diving headfirst into reality, when there wasn’t any water in the goddamn pool.

Bucky couldn’t stop staring at Brock’s untouched locker as he frantically yanked his hair up into some sort of giant knot on the top of his head. Even when Steve slid up behind him to smooth a few rogue hairs behind Bucky’s ears, he couldn’t rip his eyes away. If Steve was on Bucky’s wavelength (which he was) he was also figuring out that they were both smack dab in the middle of some seriously fucked up shit...maybe even more fucked up than what had happened in the first place. Bucky pulled on his jacket and threw his wet crap in his bag. It could mildew... whatever.

Steve grabbed Bucky’s hand and led him towards the ‘top secret meeting stairs’; which were just the boring locker room stairs, but the other way sounded cooler. Bucky had to say that Serious-Steve was looking seriously prepared for some very serious business. His navy blue t-shirt, dark jeans, and plaid overshirt were giving him a very business casual vibe (perhaps Google Intern chic?). He looked like Skinner without the hipster glasses; still hot as hell, but in a more ‘hot as hell geek stuck behind a computer talking into a headset and helping clueless people unlock their computers’ kinda way.

At least Bucky’s outfit was a big ball of colorful fun and confetti excitement! If he showed up to his cubicle on ‘business casual Friday’ wearing his excellent Punk meets Gangster Rap meets Harry Styles ensemble, his boss would snap his fingers and send Bucky’s ass straight home. For real, it was the best outfit that he’d put together all year: red and black plaid pants with zippers, zippers, and more zippers, Notorious BIG t-shirt, bomb diggity electric blue, leather biker jacket, _and_ his electric blue ten-eye Docs. If Bucky was rocketing at a million miles-per-hour straight into the world’s most fucked up day, the least he could do was dress for the occasion. What was that thing that Grandmas always say before they pinch your cheeks? ‘Always wear clean underwear in case you get into an accident?’ Well, Bucky was gonna look badass in that ambulance and when the cute Paramedics checked to see if he’d put on clean underwear, they were gonna discover that he’d gone full commando for this very special occasion. Bucky’d never had a Grandma, so he was gonna free-ball the shit out of today!

It said a lot about Bucky’s daily fashion choices that the only comment that popped out of Steve’s mouth as they walked up the steps to Mordor was, “I love your jacket. Did someone kill Cookie Monster to make it for you?”

“Yeah, Rumlow was getting warmed up this weekend and went on a horrific Muppet murder spree; he’s got something against the blue ones. That prick ambushed Cookie Monster in the food court in front of Mrs. Field’s...he didn’t even let the poor guy finish his cookie! Then, he snuck up behind Grover and took him out with a shot to the head while the little blue guy was trying to order himself a delicious blueberry smoothie at Jamba Juice. Rumlow was on a bonus mission to execute Grover so that he could make my boots.”

Stopping short, Bucky planted one of his Muppet skin boots two steps up to let Steve get a proper look but, lo and behold, he was the one who ended up with the scenic view: TJ was lurking at the top of the stairs as promised, and Frank was leaning against the wall looking gangster as fuck.

“That’s not funny, baby," Steve whispered, taking in the view too.

Bucky’s heart rate doubled, and he couldn’t stop himself from spewing word vomit all over the stairs. “I think that Brock’s planning on cutting me into a vintage Simplicity pattern that he found on clearance for fifty cents at Joanne Fabric. He’s gonna get all crafty and sew himself a dress made of my gorgeous homosexual skin...you know, throw me in a well, ‘he puts the lotion on his skin or else he gets the hose again’. I wonder if he’ll wear me out to a big Italian mob dinner and put my one-of-a kind Cookie Monster coat over top? Layering skinned murder victims is _very_ Vogue.”

Steve’s bullshit level was subzero when he grabbed Bucky’s hand, begging, “Baby, please stop...”

“You two kept your fucking mouths shut, right?" Frank interrupted, fiddling with the toothpick in his mouth. What the fuck did he eat for breakfast? Steak?

Steve blasted up the steps, superhero style, with a single effortless bound (what the hell is a ‘bound’ anyway?) and jammed a finger in the middle of Frank’s chest. He sounded mega pissed when he yelled, “What the fuck did you do?” It was impressive.

Frank went straight up ‘Pulp Fiction’ Jules Winnfield, chucking and leaning into Steve’s finger. The only words that came out of Castle’s mouth might have been something like, “Took care of it, so don’t say shit," but Bucky very clearly heard, ‘blessed is he who, in the name of charity and good will, shepherds the weak through the valley of darkness, for he is truly his brother’s keeper and the finder of lost children.’ If Bucky wasn’t scared shitless, he would have offered Frank a Royale with Cheese.

“Why would you do that?” Steve didn’t back up an inch, or a half inch, or a fraction of an inch; he just stood there toe to toe with Frank fucking Castle (who had a good inch on six-foot Steve) snarling. No fucking joke, his boyfriend let out a real, honest to goodness snarl, like he was gonna eat Frank for dinner and gobble up TJ for dessert. Maybe pop a little cherry on top...

“Let’s just say that Brock’s family recently declared war on my family, so this is payback on my end too. I’m killing two birds with one stone.” Frank sniffed and cracked all of his knuckles in one sickeningly loud pop. The sound was a bone crunching period to his sentence, and it made Bucky cringe.

Grabbing the railing and tapping the side of his head against the bricks, Bucky tried to ignore the aggression building all around him. Nothing like ending up smack dab in the middle of ‘Scarface’ first thing on a Monday morning! What was next? Was Brock gonna jump out of the stairwell, in a well cut suit with a gold chain, and scream, ‘say hello to my little friend’? Was Frank gonna sneak up from behind him, brandishing a twelve-gauge-sawed-off double barrel shotgun, and blow Brock’s spine all over the anti-bullying poster?

Bucky was a pretty simple guy, with simple-guy wants and desires, and this whole situation was _so_ _far beyond_ anything that fit that definition. He just wanted to snuggle under a quilt and watch ‘The Notebook’ while Steve kissed and sucked on his toes (and maybe played with his butt a little bit), but _no_ , he was stuck in a stupid stairwell, choking on the thick cloud of testosterone that was exploding out of Steve’s and Frank’s bulging muscles. While their alpha male posturing was oddly sexy, it was abso-fucking-lutely clear that no answers were gonna come out of that cockfight, so Bucky jumped in and tried a completely different approach.

Side-stepping the stubborn, he walked around his boyfriend (currently known as pumped up Tyler Durden) towards TJ. Bucky was totally pretending that he was wearing Axl’s sexy cop hat, to add authenticity to his ‘good cop’ aura, when he said, “TJ, I sorta get why Jules here is ready to rumble, but I don’t have a clue why you’re involved.”

It took a few seconds, but TJ took a nervous puppy step towards Bucky, before looking him right in the eye. The effect was immediate and very surprising. Suddenly, some sort of warp in the space time continuum opened up that made Bucky feel like it was just the two of them hiding underneath the bleachers with sweaty palms. The rumbling of hundreds of feet and the excited cheers of the students had been the only sounds as TJ had taken the very same nervous puppy steps into Bucky’s very first kiss two years ago.

“It’s simple," TJ sniffed, rubbing his nose with the back of his hand. “Because Brock’s an asshole and he deserves it. Tipping off your dad was the easiest way to get Brock out of our lives.”

And there it was.

Steve flipped off his Fight Club switch, instantly mellowing himself down to dramatic concern as he slid a solid hand around Bucky’s hip. The way that his fingers grabbed hold, pressing just a little too hard into the fabric of Bucky’s pocket, made it perfectly clear that Steve had caught the meaning of that single word too. ‘ _Our_ lives’. _Our..._

The three letters crashed through Bucky’s stomach, as TJ’s hands started shaking against his thighs. Bucky wanted to scream, and to shake every single building in Manhattan until all of the fucking foundations crumbled and there was nothing left for any abusive pricks to hide behind. This was too much. He was grateful for Steve’s hand, because without it Bucky probably would have fallen backwards down the stupid stairs. It was all too fucking much...

_...You don’t fuckin’ belong at Eaton, you dick sucking pussy, so you’d better stay outta my way if you know what’s good for you!..._

Steve’s put his other palm on Bucky’s chest (right on top of Biggie Smalls) as he shook his head at Frank. “I don’t think this is the right way to go about it.”

“So, you’d rather have Bucky press charges?" Frank scoffed. “Did you even think about how that would go down? ‘Cause if you did, I doubt you’d be standing here bitchin’ at me. Are you ready for _everyone_ to find out what happened?” Castle looked towards TJ, who’d dropped his eyes to the floor. “You ready for the _other people_ that he’s been harassing to get subpoenaed? If you seriously think that Brock’s dad won’t destroy you in court, and drag all of your names through the mud in the process, then you’re a fucking idiot! If Carlisle Rumlow put out a hit out on my parents, do you think that he’d even bat an eye at destroying people like you?”

Bucky couldn’t have heard that right. A hit? A fucking hit!

“You were really fucked up…" TJ muttered, glancing back up at Bucky with something like guilt...or maybe shame.

Steve’s reaction was swift (and a little scary) as he yelled, “Are you kidding me, TJ?! That doesn’t matter!”

TJ ignored Steve completely and stared right into Bucky’s fucking soul with his stupidly pretty, light green eyes. He might be hunched over and hiding behind Castle, but his fucking eyes weren’t wimpy or hesitant at all; they were radiating the fucking truth. Bucky backed down the steps, wishing that he was crawling into a deep fucking hole, because it was _true_ ; he _had_ been fucked up...and not just normal ‘weekend shots with your idiot friends’ fucked up...he’d been completely and totally blackout level _fucked up_.

Steve and Frank were still arguing, but Bucky couldn’t even hear them anymore. He was too busy staring at TJ Campbell and really _seeing_ him for the first time in two years. Bucky had always thought that TJ was handsome in a clean-cut, brooding kinda way; they had the same body type, even though TJ was smaller and leaner than Bucky, and since he’d always been a little bit of a narcissist, his attraction to the guy made sense. Even in tenth grade, TJ had always managed to make the most stereotypically, boring rich kid clothes look majorly sexy. Plain white button up shirt? Sexy. Navy blue tie? Sexy. Shiny black dress shoes? Sexy. Boring Senator’s son hair? Sexy. But it had been that goddamn sexy, navy blue peacoat that had pushed Bucky over the line.

The weather had turned chilly in the middle of October, and the irresistible blue peacoat had shown up to teach Bucky some very important lessons about desire. There had been something seductive about the way that TJ’s heart shaped face had looked framed by that big, blue collar, and the way that TJ’s green eyes had popped against the dark fabric had made Bucky’s mouth _really_ water over a real guy (that wasn’t Nick Jonas or Jake Bass) for the very first time. It had taken about four days of exposure to the sultry, navy blue peacoat for Bucky’s sweet, innocent crush to engorge itself into uncontrollable ‘I _must_ pull TJ Campbell under the bleachers _right fucking now!_ ’ lust. Looking back at it now, Bucky could more objectively say that TJ had been nothing short of beautiful.

Fucking hell. Bucky slid down the brick wall, his leather jacket getting scratched on the way, and sat on the top step of the stupid fucking stairs. It was so fucking clear now; the way that TJ’s five-foot-ten suddenly looked five-foot-seven, as he hunched his shoulders forward while he leaned against the wall, how his formerly sharp, wide eyes looked dull as they drooped shut every few seconds, the way that his usually perfectly pressed shirt was wrinkled above his narrow hips, and worst of all, the fact that TJ’s shiny, black dress shoes had giant scrapes down the insteps…

A horrific image of Brock kicking those shoes apart as he violently held TJ up against a wall, popped into Bucky’s head as he stared at those god-awful fucking scratches...jesus fucking christ...

Pancakes. Bucky was gonna fucking cry because he started thinking about pancakes and syrup. There had been freshly flipped pancakes, covered with mountains of powdered sugar, the morning after Tony’s Mad Hatter extravaganza, and Bucky could clearly remember TJ picking at his golden stack while he’d been blasted out of his mind on coke. Bucky _really_ thought about how all of the hungover assholes had been laughing and joking, while TJ had pushed uneaten bites around the syrupy edges of his plate with a fork. And what had Bucky done? Well, he’d sat there basking in his endorphin filled ‘I lost my virginity to Steve Rogers last night afterglow’, playing fucking footsies while he’d thought ugly, cruel things about TJ... when… god dammit. God fucking dammit! Bucky was such a dick! Wiping at his eyes he tried to think about nothing...

...which was fucking impossible because the the cockfight was still raging, and feathers and blood were splattering everywhere, landing all over TJ’s wrinkled shirt and sticking in Bucky’s knotted hair.

Frank clapped his hand on Steve’s shoulder, which resulted in instant bitch face. Brock’s hand was _not_ welcome.

“Listen, Steve,” Castle started. “It _does_ matter that Bucky was fucked up, because his account will be considered unreliable. That leaves you, me, and TJ as witnesses; and you need to think about that scenario very carefully. Nobody will take my word for it...trust me on that...and how do you think that TJ’s dad is gonna feel about this whole situation? You know that TJ’s not even supposed to _talk_ to Bucky, right? And what about your stepdad? I bet conservative Alexander Pierce will _love_ seeing you mixed up in a high-profile trial, especially one that exposes all the juicy details about how your _boyfriend_ got sexually assaulted while he was high as fuck on whiskey and Vicodin at a High School dance!”  

Bucky was speechless.

Then it dawned on him, slamming full force into Bucky’s gut in that pivotal moment of horror movie realization; the babysitter learning that the crank call was coming from _inside the house_ , the girlfriend figuring out that her _boyfriend_ had been the murderer all along, the little boy noticing that his creepy stuffed monkey _isn’t sitting on the rocking chair_ where he’d left it! Bucky wrapped his fingers around Steve’s ankle as a sharp chill raced up his spine. “Why did Brock have a gun in his locker?”

“Oh, there’s the five-thousand dollar question right there. At least one of you’s catching on,” Frank muttered, reclaiming his gangster stance next to TJ. “I told you, Brock’s losing it. He stashed it there last Monday, after Barton decided to humiliate him at that stupid party, and Steve pushed him over the fuckin’ edge by breaking his nose in front of everybody. Why do you think I warned you?”

“What!?" Steve shouted.

“You didn't warn us that he had a fucking gun!” Bucky gasped. He felt like puking all over his electric blue, Grover skin boots.

“It’s better this way, Bucky," TJ sighed, running a hand over his pomaded hair. It was longer than Bucky had ever seen it, and it stuck up a little around his ears after he’d pushed it back. “After the dance, I just walked up and told your dad that I saw Brock put a gun in his locker. It was easy.”

“I don’t like this," Steve huffed.

Frank dug out his phone and growled, “Maybe try a ‘thank you’ instead of being an unappreciative dick. I’ve known you for a long time, Steve, and I’ve always respected you, but right now you’re really pissing me off. Plus, the two of you are making me so fucking late to class! If I get a detention because of this…”

“Thank you," Bucky quietly interrupted. He didn’t have to look up, he could feel it when Steve jerked his head towards him in shock, or disgust, or maybe anger...whatever the reaction, Bucky was absolutely positive that it wasn’t gonna be covered in googly eyed, yellow, smiley face stickers.

“Finally! You’re fuckin’ welcome. Now, explain to your _boyfriend_ why ‘thank you’ was the right thing to say.” Frank spit his toothpick against the wall and commanded, “Not a word," before disappearing around the corner.

TJ didn’t move, leaning against the wall for a minute like he didn’t know where to go, or what to do, or what to say...and the only thing that Bucky could do was grab Steve’s leg so hard that his fingers turned white...because TJ _didn’t_ have anywhere to go, he _didn’t_ have anyone’s ankle to ground him and make him feel safe and strong, and he looked so fucking lost.

When the spell broke, TJ simply mumbled, “I’m sorry Bucky," before walking down the long hall alone.

As his lean form got smaller and smaller, Bucky felt like he was the one who needed to apologize. ‘TJ, I’m sorry that I held your hand on the bus. I’m sorry that I thought you looked super hot in your blue peacoat. I’m sorry that I recklessly pulled you under the bleachers. I’m sorry that I wasn’t more careful with you.’

“Bucky, we have to tell your da…”

“No," he interrupted. “We can’t do that to TJ, and I’m _not_ doing that to you!”

“Baby, I told you that I’m gonna get away from Pierce. I’m going to Tony’s _tonight_ to work on a plan, so it won’t matter. And we’ll figure out a way to keep TJ out of this whole mess. This is about _you_.”

“But it’s _not_ just about me, Steve.”

“Brock could do this to other people! It’s not right! He had a _fucking_ _gun_ , Bucky!”

Steve’s bruises and burns were almost completely faded, and there was no way in hell that Bucky was gonna be responsible for creating any more. He wouldn’t do it. Steve deserved sugary smooches on his lips and tickling raspberries on his belly, _not_ more shit. Steve deserved to eat vanilla soft-serve ice cream, while he happily sat on the highest rocks in Central Park watching kids jumping and laughing in the fountain, not _this_ . Steve _never_ deserved _this_.

Bucky reached up and tugged at Steve’s hands to still him. “Hey Steve," he whispered. “Come down here and sit on this very comfortable, sanitary step with me; it’s where all the cool kids hang out, and I think that you’re the coolest. There’s this new thing that I like saying, but you’ve gotta come hang out with the misfits if you wanna hear it.”

“What? Bucky, you can’t just…”

“Steve, please sit with me. _Please_.”

Steve picked up his bag, walked out into the middle of the hall, and threw the whole fucking thing as hard as he could right down the center, like he was going for the seventy-five yard touchdown pass. Holy shit. Bucky leaned over to try to see if he’d made it into the endzone, but that bag was long gone. Even though it was out of sight, Bucky sure as fuck heard it crash into the row of lockers at the end (which had to be at least forty feet). Well then…

Tom Brady stood there with his chest heaving under his serious plaid shirt, taking a moment to get his shit together or something, before rolling his shoulders and walking back to drop next to Bucky on the step. God, he hoped nobody poured gallons of Gatorade on their heads. His hair was already fucked up enough from the beach. Steve folded up his long legs and lined up his white sneaker with Bucky’s blue boot. They were the same shoe size; maybe Bucky could let Steve borrow his red Chucks to cheer him up? It had worked with the bunny slippers...except those had scary teeth on them...were the scary teeth essential for maximum cheer?

Steve was still totally and completely stressed out (they needed to build a rocket ship and fly it far away _immediately_ ). Bucky could see it in the way that he was wringing his hands together between his spread knees. It was horrible.

Bucky tried to remember how the melting bomb pop had tasted when he’d dragged his tongue across Steve’s chest: start with tart cherry, mix in a hint of sweat, add a generous amount of blue raspberry, a dash of coconut suntan lotion, plus a tiny pinch of sand. That Coney Island recipe had been the most delicious thing that Bucky had ever tasted.

Grabbing the sides of Steve’s very serious face, Bucky was determined to find some lingering hints of bomb pop as he whispered, “Hey punk, I love you.”

“But, baby, what he did...what he was going to do to you...what if he comes back!? If he got one gun he can get another gun! You can’t just…”

So, you’re surrounded by bubbly love, first love, where you’re loved right back, and it’s flapping around your face like a zillion happy butterflies, and you feel like you’re dancing even when you’re just kissing him slowly, and it’s _awesome_ . Then you realize that this butterfly boy would shield you with his fragile wings and protect you with his life...you can tell by the way that he flutters around you and gets so damn mad when you’re hurt...and you realize that you’d do _anything_ for him in return.

It was better if Bucky shoved everything deep down under the swarms of bubbling monarchs and swooping swallowtails. It was better if he pictured Steve running towards him on the beach with a giant goofy grin, instead of acknowledging this nightmare. It was better if Bucky buried all of it under six feet of dirt, so that Steve could grab him around the waist and spin him around for hours and hours in joyful circles on the sand. It was better, because Bucky would do anything... _anything_ to get back to that.

“Steve, I need you to hug me right now. Can you _please_ just hug me and tell me that you love me?”

His jaw was still set, his nostrils were flaring, and his forehead was doing the wrinkle thing. When he got older, Bucky imagined that Steve would have lines permanently etched above his eyebrows (but he’d still be super hot). Maybe he’d even have a sexy daddy beard...

“Can you grow a beard when we’re older?”

“What?”

“I think that you’d look hot as fuck with a beard.” Bucky gave him a weak smile, and Steve finally started calming down; sliding closer on the dirty misfit step and wrapping his checkered Google-geek arms around Bucky’s #thuglife chest to kiss his temple.

“This is a horrible idea, and I love you.”

For a split second, Bucky let himself simply exist in that hug; to float to a magical place where their biggest priority was gazing out across a blue blanket ocean covered with sparkling diamonds and pretending that they were weightless (thank you, Brandon Boyd). Bucky nuzzled his nose against Steve’s neck, because the smell of his skin took Bucky to a place where diamonds sparkled like Ziggy Stardust’s sequined jumpsuits and they both could forget that they were about to get in massive trouble for skipping most of first hour, that Pierce was flying in tonight, that they didn’t get to do the mandatory morning sing-along, that Clint was fucking his sister when he probably wanted to be fucking Bucky too, to forget that he’d forgotten to put on deodorant after practice, and that he was probably gonna get shot in the face later...to forget _everything_ and just drift...

Natasha had said that Bucky needed to come back sometime, but if he could grab Steve’s hand and run as fast as he could to California, or Jupiter, or Sunnydale, or Camelot, or even fucking New Jersey, he’d leave right fucking now.

*****

 

 

Mr. Kuzinski didn’t give him a detention, in fact, he barely paused his lecture on self-isolationism in ‘The Catcher in the Rye’ when Bucky stumbled in ten minutes before the end of class. This added yet another teacher (to the _very_ long list of teachers) that were _way_ past dealing with Bucky’s shit. October was a new record though; beating Mrs. O’Dowd’s previous first place win from November of last year. For some reason, stodgy Mrs. O’Dowd hadn’t appreciated Bucky telling her, quite honestly, that he didn’t need to waste his precious time filling in redundant study packets in order to ace her tests. He’d gotten called to the office, received a nasty lecture from his dad about respect, then had to compose a very ‘sincere’ apology letter that he’d signed, ‘I ain’t got time for that. Love, Bucky’. After that, Mrs. O’Dowd had ignored him the rest of the semester while Bucky had happily collected his honor roll A. He’d used the extra time to learn how to play ‘Smells like Teen Spirit’, and other pivotal Nirvana hits, on his kickass, gold, glitter guitar with Clint. It’s a well know fact that Nirvana is a crucial life skill, and Bucky had gotten an A in ‘The History of Kurt Cobain’ too.

Dropping his backpack, Bucky collapsed into his desk and tried to stick his hands into his messy topknot. It was impossible. Even after dumping globs and globs of extra conditioner all over his hair this morning, he _still_ couldn’t untangle the mess that the beach had created, and in all honestly, he didn’t give a flying fuck. He liked it when his hair was sticking up everywhere (it made him feel dangerous). Maybe he should just let it dread?

Sam was trying to get his attention across the aisle with some sort of ‘what the hell‘s wrong with you?’ look, but Bucky just shrugged his Cookie Monster shoulders at him before banging his forehead on the heavily lacquered wood. What _wasn’t_ fucking wrong?

When something horrific happens and you have to act like nothing happened at all, it’s maybe worse than admitting what happened in all of its horrific glory...because Rumlow was just _gone_ . It was just... _over_ . Yeah, everyone was whispering, gossiping, and spreading all sorts of crazy rumors, but none of them had anything to do with Bucky. Sure, the school went on lockdown second hour so that the K-9s could sniff out everyone’s sins, but nobody had any idea that all of the dark, twisting roads led back to _Bucky_. None.

The big, brown and black dogs passed Mrs. Craft’s window, and part of Bucky wished that they’d signal with loud howls and scratching paws at her door, that the cops would smash in the door with a battering ram because the dogs could smell Brock all over Bucky...that somehow their sensitive noses would sense where Brock had touched…

_...well, if it isn’t the faggot, all by his lonesome in his pretty boy suit..._

But they just ran past, pulling hard against their leashes on their way to discovering a fuck load of weed and MDMA in everyone’s lockers. God, Bucky hoped that Clint didn’t have any on him today, or TJ...why the fuck was he worrying about TJ?...but god, the way that he’d been sniffing and looking drowsy...jesus...what the fuck was he on!? Fucking Vicodin? Was that really what Tony’d had in his mother fucking flask!?

Bucky started feeling paranoid; full on tinfoil helmet, newspaper articles from 1973 thumb tacked to bulletin board with red strings, dig your own bomb shelter and stock it with baked beans paranoid. _Paranoid!_ Somehow, because nobody was watching him, it felt like _everybody_ was watching him...like Brock was watching him. Bucky jerked his head to the open window overlooking the street and swallowed.

“Hey," Skinner whispered, tapping Bucky’s hand.

He straight up jumped.

“You okay? You got shit in your locker or something?”

“No, no, I’m fine.”

_...if you think sucking Rogers’ cock good enough to make him admit he’s a fuckin’ faggot will keep you safe...it won’t..._

“You look anything _but_ fine.”

“Mr. Skinner, I know that I’m probably boring you, but the rest of the class actually needs to learn how to use differential equations with imaginary numbers.” Mrs. Craft adjusted the reading glasses on her dangling neck chain... because they were tangled up with her lanyard, and her keys, and her school ID, and a gold siamese cat charm. Why did teachers wear so much shit around their necks anyway? Bucky glanced at the stacks of leather cuffs on his arm, the red one that Steve had snapped on after practice sitting snugly on top, and realized that he had no right to judge anyone for over-accessorizing. Maybe he’d end up with his very own cat charm someday too? It was something to aspire to. It could even happen this Christmas! Steve could give him a pair of fuzzy socks, a bunch of Milky Way bars, and a silver tabby cat charm for Bucky to hang on his collar. He almost snorted, because that was fucking funny. _Maybe_ Steve would even call him _kitty_...

Skinner reluctantly turned back towards the board, as Mrs. Craft continued talking about ...whatever the hell she’d been talking about. The millions of numbers pouring out of her red Expo marker all looked like gibberish, so Bucky was gonna go with _math_ ...as Mrs. Craft continued talking about _math,_ Bucky stared at the clock. Fifteen minutes until he learned if Brock was waiting for him in black camo next to the drinking fountain. Tick tock, tick tock. Fourteen minutes and Bucky already felt him watching...Brock _knew_ that Bucky was the real reason that someone had ratted him out about that goddamn gun; of course he fucking knew! Tick tock, tick tick tick. Who else could it have been except Castle? And Brock _must_ have fucking seen TJ under the bleachers on the pool deck. TJ was always under the mother fucking bleachers! Tick tick, thirteen minutes until TJ walked out of French, and Brock slid up behind him to press the jagged edge of a knife against the pulsating artery on his throat. Bucky’s hands started shaking with a familiar vibration and he jerked his head towards the door. Twelve minutes until Brock stepped out of the janitor’s closet, smelling like cigarettes and aftershave, to press the muzzle against Steve’s temple. Tick tock...tock tock...or maybe he’d wait until after school?... hiding in the backseat of Steve’s Escalade, waiting with a new weapon to punish him for...

_...Ohhhh the Captain is sticking up for the little fruit, huh? Ain't that grand. And cute. Maybe he'll suck your cock later as a thank you..._

Someone dropped a textbook and Bucky yelped. His head was spinning, and he couldn’t sit here in this too-small desk watching imaginary red numbers floating around his head for one more tick tick tick of the second hand! Would Castle want Bucky to do something in return? They weren’t even friends! They weren’t even close to being fucking friends! Did Frank have a gun too!? Was it stashed in the glovebox of his Jeep, clattering around with bowie knives and the grenades whenever he took a corner too fast? Did fucking _Rollins_ have a gun!? Bucky jolted around in his desk, and Jack Rollins was looking right at him! Jack Rollins was fucking staring and making plans to shoot Bucky in the back right this very second! Or Steve! Tick tock, tick tock...the sound of the second hand was driving him crazy...and Jack _knew_! He fucking knew!

Bucky was sucking in way too many breaths, and the pattern of Skinner’s plaid shirt was bending and tipping sideways as his hands desperately held onto the edges of the desk; just trying to hold on to something...anything...solid. A dog barked loudly in the hall, and Bucky saw Steve being torn to pieces by teeth and claws. He had to warn him! He had to warn Steve right fucking now! Grabbing his backpack, Bucky leapt up so quickly that his leg got caught on the desk and he dragged the whole thing out of the perfect row.

“Mr. Barnes?” Mrs. Craft dropped her marker and took a step towards him. “Bucky, are you alright?”

Tick tock tick tick tick tick...

“Bucky?” Skinner’s hand was under his armpit which was so confusing. His shirt was just tipping, how did he…

“I feel sick," was all that Bucky could say as he leaned into Skinner. “I feel sick.”

“Okay, okay, go.” Even though the school was on lockdown until the end of the hour, Mrs. Craft crossed the front of the room and threw open the door...ten more minutes tick tock tick tock... ten more minutes of massive german shepherds sniffing through metal doors for drugs and guns. Guns meant for him. Guns meant for Steve. Bucky was losing it. Mrs. Craft’s eyes told that basic truth very clearly...tick tick tick. What kind of gun would Brock even carry? A little one that he could hide in the pocket of his black bomber jacket? A giant one that needed a leather holster strapped around his shoulders? A rifle that he kept hidden behind his letter jacket in the corner of his locker, waiting waiting waiting for the perfect moment to whip it out and obliterate Bucky’s knees as he strolled towards Physics? Tick tock, tick tick tick...he ran through the door and all that he could think was, where are the dogs? Where are all the mother fucking dogs!?

Running towards the office, the rows and rows of lockers bending and twisting in sickening spirals around him, Bucky felt like he was running through a never-ending funhouse (without the fun). The police officers’ voices were echoing down the main stairwell, and Bucky wanted to stumble up the steps, crawling on his hands and knees, screaming, ‘help us!’  But he didn’t. He kept right on running...towards his dad.

He should’ve called his dad on Saturday! He should’ve called him yesterday on the way to the beach! He should’ve told him as soon as he’d walked in the goddamn door last night! He should’ve told him _everything_ this morning, instead of hiding in his Frappuccino...because Bucky couldn’t do this! Sliding around the corner past the trophy cases, past the picture of Clint holding up his regional awards, past Steve and Sam standing proudly in the center of their championship team next to the pool, past the benches, past the clock...tick tock tick tock tick...he could almost feel the safety of his dad’s arms. But just as the office came into view Bucky stopped dead in his tracks.

_...but Rogers isn’t here right now, is he? In fact, nobody is..._

If Bucky had been five minutes earlier, or three minutes later, or if he’d run faster across the twisting tiles, he could have made it the last fifty feet to the office window where the secretary could have seen him; but he was in the wrong place at the wrong time...again. Brock, dressed in a tight grey t-shirt that showed off every bit of compressed, wiry muscle, was storming through the office door with his parents right behind him. All three of them turned directly into Bucky’s path, an oncoming freight train, with thick black clouds of smoke pouring out of the engine, blasting at him at full speed and Bucky was tied to the mother fucking tracks. His feet wouldn’t move; the electric blue leather that had been flying at high speed towards safety was suddenly Super Glued to the tiles, and Bucky couldn’t breathe.  

He’d never seen the infamous Carlisle Rumlow in person, only in front page news articles and on TV, where he’d always looked scary as fuck. Those two-dimensional glimpses had been nothing compared to how monstrous he seemed stomping towards Bucky in real life. He was at least six-two, bulky, balding, and jammed into a black pinstriped suit with a long black overcoat. But the worst part, the thing that finally released one of Bucky’s frozen feet, was the sneer; it was identical to his son’s.

Bucky desperately tried to yank his other foot free from the glue, but Brock’s mother was clicking closer and closer on steep stilettos that echoed down the empty hallway like the final countdown, and the sound...click click tick tick tick...he couldn’t focus. Her burgundy taloned fingers held not one, not two, but _three_ giant rings, dripping with oversized rubies, gaudy diamonds, and gold. So much gold. As she clicked towards him, her boobs looked like they were trying to bounce right out of her obscenely low-cut leopard print wrap dress. Even though she had a burgundy leather blazer thrown over her shoulders, there was no hiding the amount of cleavage that was busting out of that hideous dress. Bucky wondered if ‘Principal Barnes’ had been distracted by her expensive fake breasts while he’d been kicking her son out of Eaton? She strutted past Bucky, cutting a wide path around him like he had the fucking plague, and clicked her tongue at him. He got the impression that she could snap her bedazzled fingers and some no-name goon would instantly blow Bucky’s brains out all over the trophy cases.

Carlisle brushed past Bucky on the other side, not changing his trajectory whatsoever, and he smelled like cigars...he smelled like cigars while his son always smelled like cigarettes. Brock had smelled like cigarettes when he’d…

“Hey there, cupcake,” Brock chuckled right in Bucky’s face, his lips spreading into that god awful crooked smile.

When did he...? How’d he get so close…? Bucky tried to make his feet move. Why the hell had he come in here alone? Why hadn’t he stayed at the dance with Steve?

_...no you don’t, cupcake..._

Sunlight suddenly lit up Bucky’s dead Grover boots, casting his shadow onto Brock and emphasizing just how frozen he was. The exit doors had opened behind him, but they offered no escape as Brock dug his scissors into the leather pattern on Bucky’s shoulder. How could someone three inches shorter than Bucky possess the power to make him feel like Alice; shrinking shrinking shrinking down to nothing, with one sip of Brock’s thick aftershave potion?

Squeezing Bucky’s shoulder tighter, Brock hissed, “This ain’t over you know. You just made it worse.”

Bucky wanted to scream at the top of his lungs, to twist away from Brock’s sharp hand, to run somewhere...anywhere...but all he did was whisper, “Don’t touch me.”

“Brock!" Carlisle yelled.

Venturing a look over his shoulder, Bucky saw that Brock’s dad was was halfway out the exit doors, with two ‘security guards’ waiting outside on the steps. The office drifted further and further out of Bucky’s reach.

“Sorry Pop, just sayin’ goodbye to one of my favorite people, you know, makin’ plans to hang out and have some _fun_ real soon.”

“Now!” Mr. Rumlow shoved the door against the wall, and the metallic bang sounded like gunfire.

Bucky longed for the brutal sound of Frank’s fist cracking across the edge of Brock’s jaw, and for the way that Rumlow’s body had hung backwards in Frank’s strong grip next to the shimmering pool. Every cell in Bucky’s body wished for the targeted explosion of Steve’s power as he’d snapped Brock’s nose and had made the blood pour down his face...

“Coming," Brock laughed, sliding his hand down to grab Bucky’s belt buckle. “I might have gone easy on you before, cupcake...treated this ass _real_ nice...but not anymore.”

_...I know how to make you disappear, understand?..._

Brock tugged on Bucky’s belt buckle once, before pushing him backwards into the pattern of sunlight on the floor. It wasn’t a hard shove, but it was enough for Bucky to feel the paralyzing pressure of Brock’s fingertips against his stomach as he stumbled on the trails of ice spreading across the cold, wet tiles beneath him. He was surprised that he didn’t fall into the pool; his blue boots dragging him to the bottom where he’d lie next to the drain, staring up at the monsters that couldn’t reach him under ten feet of peaceful, blue water.

When Brock pushed through the door after his father, he paused just long enough to leer over his shoulder and blow a kiss at Bucky, before pulling the trigger on an imaginary gun.

Then he was gone.

Just _gone_.

But Bucky could still smell him; cigarettes and whiskey stuck all over his skin like a brand. The silence of the imaginary gun had painfully popped his eardrums when the bullet hit; blasting right through Biggie Smalls’ chin, and ripping a catastrophic path through Bucky’s intestines before lodging firmly in his spine. It wasn’t a hole that would kill him instantly, like the Notorious BIG shot dead in his Suburban, but a secret, irreparable wound that would bleed out slowly while his oozing guts filled his abdomen with a thick, putrid sludge. Bucky wondered if he could zip up Cookie Monster nice and snug to hide the Mortal Kombat wound, or if the gore seeping into his wicked cool pants would give him away?

The bell rang, and Bucky dug his tangled, turquoise earbuds out of his pocket as the herd of faceless teenagers engulfed him. He wished that Steve’s walkman would magically materialize in his hand so Bucky could stare through the little window at the mesmerizing way that the wheels turned and squeaked, but all that he had was his iPod. Bodies bumped into him, jostling his arm as he scrolled, click click clicking until he landed on Alice in Chains. Dialing the volume all the way up, ‘Junkhead’ screamed through his brain and erased the sickening feeling of Brock’s fucking fingers...stop.

Brock might be gone, but nothing else was. Even when the glue finally released Bucky’s feet so that he could walk the rest of the way to the office, he felt like he was walking backwards.

TJ’s face appeared on every single nameless person surrounding Bucky, as the song repeated ‘What’s my drug of choice? Well, what have you got?’ over and over in a devastating howl. And he got it. Bucky completely understood the uneaten pancakes disintegrating in syrup, and the green eyes drooping shut to block out reality. The lyrics saturated every tarnished cell of Bucky’s body, and he wanted to make the music _louder_ ; so much _fucking louder_ ! With every step, Bucky realized that Brock would _always_ be waiting around every corner; that he’d _always_ be slumped down in the backseat of every single fucking car that drove too slowly next to Bucky when he was walking down the sidewalk to get a taco, or when he was on his way to buy the latest Bassnectar album on vinyl at the tiny record store around the corner from his house. With every single fucking step, Bucky understood that wherever he went from this moment forward Brock Rumlow was gonna be standing right in front of him, reeking of cigarettes, and grabbing Bucky’s...stop!

Somehow, Bucky ended up in the middle of the herd facing the office windows. He didn’t remember pushing past the dozens of TJs...and he didn’t care. It was funny how the perfectly Windexed glass was symmetrically framed by two fake ficus trees and four alphabetized lists of fake assholes on meaningless honor rolls. Clint’s, TJ’s, and Bucky’s names were mixed in with the perfectly typed Sophias, Ambers, Harolds, and Victorias, the misfits infiltrating their private academic club. As the song wailed, ‘the stoners, junkies and freaks’, Bucky thought, yep, that’s us. It made him laugh, and laugh, and laugh. Mouths moved all around him, directing insults and slams that Bucky could no longer hear. What was the point? What was the fucking point of telling his dad? Everything was gonna be fucked up no matter what. There was absolutely nothing that Bucky could do that would fix _anything_. A single orange and black monarch flew past his nose, and Bucky stuck out a finger so that it could safely land in the chaos. At least he could fix that...

The wailing in his ears made Bucky wonder if Layne Staley had felt trapped under heavy, worm filled dirt in his final days? Had he just lied on the needle covered floor of his apartment, watching as his fingers fell off one by one and waiting for a knock on the door that had never come? How many had rotted and rolled under the bed before he’d thought, ‘maybe I need to ask for help?’. Well, the guy was fucking dead (like most of the grunge gods) so Bucky was never gonna get that answer. He felt himself sinking backwards and the worms writhing around his boots, as the heavy grind overtook everything. ‘What’s my drug of choice? Well, what have you got?’

Bucky granted himself one final glance through the looking glass. His dad was leaning on the counter, talking to the counselor, and when the second bell rang he turned towards the window and saw Bucky standing alone on the other side. Dark bruises, deep cuts, and peeling burns covering Steve’s body, TJ caving in on himself with hunched shoulders...the days of lighthearted, dumb jokes and crazy food fights destroyed by Bucky’s stupidity and weakness. Phil raised his hand and gave Bucky a quizzical little wave full of concern and love, but Bucky didn’t move.

Hitting his head backwards against the wall, he felt his fingers starting to rot; just the tips...just the faintest sensation of numbness and nothing. His dad pinched his eyebrows and took a step towards the office door, but Bucky had already made his decision. Quickly returning the wave, he ducked out of view and ran as fast as he could for the stairs that would take him towards his rooftop ladder. There had only been a few rules when his dad had handed over the key to the roof: ‘Don’t skip class to hang out on the roof’ had been number one. Taking the steps two at a time, Bucky realized that he already knew what his drug of choice was; he’d been dabbling with it for years. Throwing the door open to get to his ladder, Bucky stomped all over his dad’s first rule with his Muppet skin boots and climbed up the rungs; escaping into the rooftop’s addictive cloud of silence until lunch.

Fuck it.

  


 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Playlist Ch 16 & 17- [ JessieLucidYouTube ](https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCjADIMzQjvmnAs-nGoSG0JQ%20)  
> 1\. Placebo- Where is my mind *songs 1-4 go with the first two scenes  
> 2\. Lana Del Rey- Guns and Roses  
> 3\. Guns N Roses- Sweet Child of Mine  
> 4\. Twenty One Pilots- Guns for Hands  
> 5\. Mogwai- Pripyat *songs 5-7 go with the aftermath of Bucky’s meeting with Frank & TJ  
> 6\. Soundgarden- Black Hole Sun  
> 7\. Alice in Chains- Junkhead *play with scene for max impact, the chapter cues you  
> >
> 
>  
> 
> Find my Stucky Art here  
> [Instagram](https://www.instagram.com/jessielucidart/%20)  
> [Tumblr](https://lucidnancyboy.tumblr.com/%20)
> 
> Keep the comments coming guys. I ADORE every single word of every one! Sending you big comforting hugs!


	17. Simple

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Howdy! If you haven't figured it out yet, "Misfits" is under construction/revision. I split Chapter 16 in half, and did a major revision on the new Ch 16/17 (adding 26 new pages of content between them). I also already revised and posted Chapters 1-6, with the rest coming throughout the summer. ALSO, the brand new Chapter 18 will be posted next week (last week of June)! Phew!
> 
> This is all thanks to my amazing beta Lorien, who has helped me become a better writer, and has put up with my complete cluelessness about commas (lol). Check out her AMAZING art on Tumblr  
> [drjezdzany](http://drjezdzany.tumblr.com)  
> and find her here on Ao3   
> [Lorien](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lorien/pseuds/Lorien)
> 
> Also thanks to my second beta unicornandbacon on Tumblr who helped with ideas for this chapter too.
> 
> There is a song that I highly recommend you play along with the scene. It is cued in the story. "Bombtrack" by Rage Against the Machine. It will really help you catch the vibe and understand Bucky's mindset.
> 
> Please be mindful of the tags. Things are about to get a little rough. Hugs in advance.

                                                     

 

The bad news was, Bucky had  _ maybe _ taken a rooftop nap next to the chimney for  _ all  _ of third hour. The good news was, even though it had been chilly and Cookie Monster had made a horrible pillow, he felt a little better (a lot better) after he woke up. Maybe ‘Alice in Chains’ hadn’t been the best choice of soundtrack to go along with his total and complete mental breakdown? Had Bucky  _ really _ needed to add rotting fingers and crippling drug addiction to his well-stocked buffet of mashed potatoes, chocolate pudding, violence, and abuse? Probably not.

When he sidled up to Steve at lunch, Bucky immediately felt a sexy computer geek hand creeping onto his thigh and that made him feel  _ even better _ ! Damn, these Google Help Desk guys really could fix anything! Bucky stole half of Steve’s turkey sandwich (boyfriend privilege) and tuned in to Tony’s latest speech. He was pontificating about his epic gay adventure and going into  _ way _ too much detail about Macaulay’s ass. Apparently, Tony’s new love interest has a tiny, red heart tattooed on his right butt cheek. The corners of Bucky’s mouth bent up into a proud mama smile, because it had been his top-notch pimp skills that had gotten Tony Stark an unobscured view of Macaulay’s ass. Yeah, Bucky had skills.

But the thing that finally made Bucky feel like  _ Bucky _ again, was Tony presenting him with his very own Lil John pimp cup! It was fucking huge and had green, red, and blue gems spelling out ‘Bucky the Pimp’ around the edge. Clint jumped up immediately to overflow the pimpalicious gold goblet with Mountain Dew, taking a huge swig before passing it over to Ezra. All of Bucky’s idiot friends took their their turn yelling, “Okaayy,” (even Frank, groan), and Bucky  _ almost _ felt ‘normal’.

He still wanted to shove Steve’s huge, gorgeous body into his backpack and run away to the mountains of China to hang out with the pandas, but the gold goblet covered with germs from Bucky’s squad (snort), the secret kisses, and the naughty butt grabs in the back corner of Bucky’s favorite bathroom stall were enough to let him float through the rest of the day thinking about much nicer things.

For example, how Bucky was a little (a lot) fucked on his schoolwork; you know, typical, nice, normal, teenage bullshit. He was chillin’ with little Miss Daisy on their favorite couch before art; meaning that Bucky was lying upside-down, dangling his socked feet over the back with his head hanging over the seat. His topknot was making him a fun little stand on the carpet and Bucky was enjoying squishing it, and letting it go, squishing it, and letting it go. Daisy, because she was the queen of all things sweet, had very generously provided him with three pink cubes of delectable watermelon Bubble Yum. Bucky was testing out his theory that blowing impressive bubbles would be much harder upside-down. Hypothesis: If the subject blows bubbles upside-down the number of successful bubbles will decline due to excess watermelon spit entering the sinuses.

Much to his chagrin, on his very first try Bucky blew a record breaking bubble, instantly disproving his own hypothesis. He’d make a shit scientist. Anyway, Bucky had to admit that he  _ might _ have gotten a teeny tiny bit distracted by a certain someone named Steve, and that he  _ might _ have pretended that he didn’t have a six-page book report due Thursday on a book that he hadn’t finished. Correction: he had a book report due Thursday on a book that he’d gotten bored with after nine sleep-inducing pages, then had lost in the bottom of his locker. Further Correction: he had a book report due Thursday on a book, whose name he couldn’t even remember, that was  _ hopefully _ lost in the bottom of his locker. Honestly, it could be lost in the Bermuda Triangle of Tedious High School Literature for all he fucking knew.

_ Maybe _ Bucky had spent an itsy bitsy bit too much time mooning over a certain someone (still Steve) and he’d completely ignored the huge study packet on imaginary numbers that Mrs. Craft had assigned last Wednesday. Bucky still didn’t have a clue what an imaginary number even was _ ,  _ and  _ maybe _ he’d been a wee bit too distracted by his newfound ability to kiss Steve’s soft lips to ask Skinner for help like he usually did. Real truth: school had always been super easy for Bucky (except for Espanrolo de loco caramel choclolatte), but imaginary numbers were probably gonna be the thing that finally did him in. The worst part about it was, after the imaginary bastards had taken Bucky down, nobody would be able to figure out what had happened to him... _ because they were fucking imaginary! _

He’d also _, maybe_ , spent an itty bitty bit too much time sucking Steve’s dick on the roof (twice, totaling roughly twenty-five minutes) instead of doing the trajectory lab for Physics. If Bucky had a calculator, he could probably figure out the trajectory of Steve’s come when it had shot across the rooftop towards the air conditioner. There had to be some sort of formula to figure out how the viscosity of Steve’s load impacted the rate at which it slid down the silver metal; Bucky could calculate its gooey descent for extra fucking credit.

Blowing another bubble, Bucky giggled outright because  _ maybe _ it hadn’t only been two times; he  _ might _ have gotten on his knees in front of Steve a third time (adding up to a grand total of forty minutes of rooftop dick sucking), and lord have mercy, that last one had been a  _ doozy _ . Bucky smiled underneath his pink bubble just thinking about it! He’d spent fifteen minutes making Steve moan and writhe in the green plastic chair by sneaking his tongue just a  _ little bit _ past his balls for the first time…

See! So fucking distracting! Who the fuck could think about homework when they’d almost gotten to lick Steve Rogers’ ass?

Bucky rubbed his topknot on the floor to somehow assist him in the process of clearing his mind of the ‘ass ass ass ass ass’ signal that was flashing inside his optic nerves. He couldn’t even begin to think about Espano ravioli tres la bouche...nope.

Kicking his socked feet up on the window, Bucky blew another huge bubble, just in time for Ms. Jaeger’s feet to come into his upside-down view. Ah, a helpful visual reminder of the hardest assignment of them all: the photography series (dun dun dunnn). How could taking a few pictures be harder than Calculus? Well, Bucky actually  _ gave a shit  _ about art and he wanted to do the project right. He stared at Ms. Jaeger’s tiny boots with the furry tongues hanging out, and Bucky knew that he was royally fucked. Prince William, Prince Harry,  _ and _ Prince Charles could line right up (maybe even the Queen herself, with a royal strap-on) because the project was due Friday and Bucky still had to take the pictures, edit the pictures, print the pictures, mat the pictures, and write artist statements to go with the pictures. He couldn’t pull that kind of artistry out of his ass. The rest of his classes...sure...but not an assignment like this...

“I like your socks, Bucky.”

He pointed his toes straight up to give the ladies a better view of the cartoon fire licking at his ankles, and snickered. “Thanks, Ms. J. I had a sneaking suspicion that today was gonna be flaming hot.”

Daisy laughed, grabbing one of his blazing feet to get a closer look. “Do these say ‘hot stuff’?”

“Sure do, darlin’. You’d better be careful, or your pretty little hands might get burned.” Bucky snorted because he’d tried to sound like a cowboy, but it had come out more like he was a drunk guy from Canada.

Bucky didn’t reveal that he’d picked out the socks this morning after he’d rolled out of Natasha’s bed. There had been at least five very tense minutes of Bucky standing naked in his room, staring into his sock drawer and  _ not _ thinking about socks. The knowledge that he was most likely about to walk into a raging inferno both Naked  _ and _ Afraid, with only a roll of duct tape and a useless bow drill (that didn’t even fucking work) had freaked him the fuck out.  _ Obviously, _ Bucky would be one of the dumbasses on the Discovery Channel who inexplicably thought that duct tape was a better survival tool than a machete. He’d known one thing for sure: duct tape wasn’t gonna protect his twig and berries from the goddamn baboons! Why the hell had he spent ten minutes of his life staring at socks and thinking about baboons attacking his dick? No fucking clue.

Ms. Jaeger thankfully interrupted the horrors of baboons trying to eat Bucky’s nuts, asking, “Are you two ready to conference about the project?”

Bucky flopped over and pushed himself right-side-up (which wasn’t nearly as fun), and wow, he’d been upside-down for  _ way _ too long. Black spots floated across his vision and he could literally feel the blood draining out of his brain and back to his heart. Ms. J was fashionable as always, decked out in black jeans and a killer Pink Floyd sweatshirt. She was  _ way _ too cool for the teacher’s lounge at Eaton, and yeah, she was definitely Bucky’s top secret, forty-something-year-old soul mate.

The assignment was as follows: use cropped composition, interesting angles, and dramatic lighting to create a series of portraits depicting authentic emotion. If Bucky thought about the roller coaster of emotions that he and his friends (and his new friends) had been riding for the past two weeks, he could easily publish a ten-pound, three-hundred-page, award winning coffee table book. There were literally gallons of emotional vomit sloshing around in his mind:

 

  1. Tony standing on the lunch table, telling the entire student body to fuck off in his pointy wizard hat (Tolkien bravery)
  2. Skinner arguing with Banner about something sciencey in their matching black glasses (geeky intensity) 
  3. Tony drawing hairy dicks on the bathroom mirror, dressed as The Mad Hatter (horny madness)
  4. Daisy sharing Moon Pies with reformed Barbies (Little Debbie optimism) 
  5. Ezra running his hands through his hair and moaning in his Gucci sunglasses (hangover regret) 
  6. Scott popping up from behind the couch during Tony’s pancake breakfast (don't do drugs, kids) 
  7. Clint laughing as he threw Cheetos at lunch (bromance mischief) 
  8. Natasha trying to cover Bucky’s naked ass that first morning (sisterly facepalming)
  9. Clint crying when he told Bucky the truth (fear...so much fucking fear) 
  10. Steve...Bucky couldn’t even _begin_ with Steve. Maybe it would be the way his shy smile crept up when he said ‘I love you’ on the beach (peace). But to reproduce real emotion like that in a false setting? How the fuck was Bucky supposed to do that? 
  11. TJ’s eyes when he said ‘I’m sorry’ (pain)
  12. Frank snarling in Steve’s face (vengeance) 
  13. Brock sneering as he grabbed Bucky’s d...stop!



Hundreds of emotional images flipped through Bucky’s brain in rapid succession, like one of those stickman flip-books that you draw to vandalize the corners of your math book. Except Bucky’s stick-dude wasn’t doing a cute little cartwheel or waving ‘hello’ with his tiny stick arm... _ nooo _ ... Bucky’s stickman was flailing around helplessly and teleporting all over the fucking page. 

 

  1. Steve looking down in wonder as Bucky opened his mouth
  2. Sam rolling his eyes in the bathroom stall
  3. Clint smiling with purple dye dripping down his face
  4.  Brock leering as he said ‘cupca...stop!
  5.  Steve covered in blood and tears
  6.  Brock’s cocky fake smile in the hall this mor...stop!
  7.  Steve staring 
  8.  Brock growling and digging his fingers...stop!
  9. TJ kneeling 
  10. Frank
  11. Steve 
  12. Brock with a gun



 

“Bucky.” Ms Jaeger squatted down with an authentically concerned look on her face. Where was a camera when he needed one? Touching Bucky’s plaid knee, she asked, “What’s wrong?”

“Huh? Oh, nothing. I’m just tired. Fun weekend full of all sorts of rebellious teenage stuff, you know?” Bucky gave her his best fake smile: big, wide, and shiny like a new penny. He was a shiny, happy person through and through, and stretching his mouth into an impossibly huge Joker smile proved it!  

Daisy scrunched up her nose and squinted at him, followed by Ms. J scrunching up  _ her  _ nose and squinting at him; it was clear that neither one of them was buying the stinky load of shit that he was trying to sell them.

“Okay..." Ms. J hesitated. To call bullshit, or not to call bullshit: that is the question. She chose the latter and asked, “So, how’s the project going?”

Bucky snorted, because what the fuck else was he supposed to do? Slapping his hands onto the knees of his pants, he longed for the whip cream that had exploded all over the red and black pattern in the car this morning. Instead of answering her question, Bucky desperately wanted to go back to Starbucks, right this fucking second, to order himself another Frapp (maybe two...maybe seven).

But Ms. J was looking at him expectantly, so Bucky blurted out the honest to goodness truth. “Well, to put it simply, it’s not going. I don’t even know where to start. I have too many ideas, and I don’t know how I’m supposed to capture everything, and it’s really overwhel…”

“Hey, Bucky," she interrupted. “Take a deep breath and think of something simple. Sometimes the deepest, most authentic emotions are found there; in simplicity. I know that things have been changing for you recently…”

“Well, that’s certainly one way to put it.”

She gave him a sad smile, then put a comforting hand on Bucky’s Biggie Smalls shoulder. Biggie had really let him down today...maybe he’d try Tupac tomorrow? No, he’d gotten himself shot dead too! Bucky needed to go out and buy himself a 50 Cent shirt! That mother fucker’s been shot like nine times and he’s  _ still _ rappin’ about the candy shop.

Ms. J sounded so damn nice when she said, “Maybe that’s why you’re overwhelmed? The problem could be that too many things are shifting around in your life right now. What’s the first thing that pops into your head when you think of the word ‘simple’?”

Bucky leaned his head onto Daisy’s lacy shoulder and thought about it... he really fucking did...but there was nothing. Zip. Zero. Zilch. Nada. Nothing. Daisy really had on a pretty outfit today. He liked her overalls.

“Bucky?”

“To be honest,” he answered, still thinking about Daisy’s fashionable farmer-wear, “nothing seems simple right now.”

Nodding, Ms. J let them all pause in that revelation. She was a very wise woman in a very cool Pink Floyd sweatshirt. “Well, try to think about it. If you’d like to stay after school and talk, I’m here ‘till four.”

When Bucky smiled at her this time it was completely sincere. He put Jack Nicholson, Heath Ledger, and Jared Leto in the closet to get busy out-Jokering one another (RIP Heath), and meant every word when he whispered, “Thanks Ms. J.”

“Anytime. And, lucky for you, when I talked to Daisy this morning she said that she’d procrastinated too.” She raised her eyebrows at Daisy and chuckled. “A possible work session after school at Clint Barton’s house was mentioned...”

“And he totally said we could!” Daisy interrupted, throwing Bucky a thumbs up before looping her arm around his shoulder. “Skinner’s borrowing his DJ friend’s lights and there was serious talk of snacks!”

Yeah, that sounded like the perfect idea. Pulling Daisy into a full blown hug, Bucky slid his flaming hot toes across the carpet and tapped his blazing heels together three times. His wish: that Skinner would buy Bucky a huge bag of Flamin Hot Cheetos.

*****

  
  
  


Sure it was a pain for Daisy and Skinner to always have to drive to Brooklyn through the barbarity of fuck-hour traffic, but Clint’s house was almost always parent-free which meant it was their hang-out of choice. After Phil had dropped Bucky and Clint off, they’d squeezed into the tiny kitchen to put together a tuna noodle casserole...at least until he’d gotten kicked out because of a frozen pea mishap (what was it with frozen peas lately?). Bucky had just finished digging the last pea out from underneath the fridge when Skinner and Daisy had arrived bearing a big Santa bag full of gifts (it was actually two Prada bags, but Santa was more fun): Daisy’s expensive camera, Skinner’s buddy DJ Alcatraz’s badass LED lights, a twelve pack of Coke, a big, brown paper bag from the corner store, overflowing with snacks (Flamin Hot Cheetos included!), and props! Bucky fucking  _ loved _ props! 

A shitload of colorful sunglasses? Check. Jack Swift’s sexy, black cowboy hat? Check! Special thanks needed to be extended to Daisy for being as equally obsessed with Jake Gyllenhaal as Bucky. Seriously, his body in ‘Southpaw’ had provided Bucky with a lifetime of thick as fuck Jake Gyllenhaal masturbation material (even without the big belt buckles of Brokeback)! So, black cowboy hat? Fucking  _ hell yes, _ check! Gold and silver disco glitter? Check! Pearls… Pearls?

“Daisy, why the hell did you bring a strand of pearls?" Clint laughed and yanked them out of Bucky’s hand, holding them up for inspection.

She smiled and wrapped some sort of faux fur ferret around her neck before answering his question all easy-breezy. “So we can give Bucky a pearl necklace.”

Clint snorted (loudly...very very loudly) and flung the necklace up in the air, while Bucky instantly dropped DJ Alcatraz’s heaviest light smack dab on his big toe. If he broke it, would he have to go to Alcatraz? But, she had to be kidding. Right? Jumping on one foot Bucky yelled, “Daisy! Oh, my fucking toe! Oh my fucking god, that hurts! Daisy, jesus christ, do you know what that means!?”

Daisy stared at them like they were complete idiots. “Other than a classic symbol of feminine power? I was thinking Jackie O. but androgynous, you know, the blurring of gender lines…”

“It means that someone sprayed come all over his neck," Skinner interrupted, chuckling as he ripped open a bag of Doritos.

“What!? It does not!” She snatched the necklace up off the floor like she was protecting a sweet, innocent child from Skinner’s vulgar filth.

Clint was doubled over laughing, but somehow managed to say, “I mean, I have no doubt that Bucky’s getting used to wearing pearl necklaces ever since he  _ roped _ Steve Rogers into being his  _ boyfriend _ . Isn’t that right, Bucky?”

“You guys  _ are _ kidding right?” Daisy stared at the pearls dangling over her palm, looking  _ completely _ mortified. “I borrowed these from my mom.”

“Oh my god.” Bucky grabbed at his heart (underneath Biggie) and pretended to fall against Clint’s amp. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing!

Skinner was the only one who wasn’t in a state of uncontrollable laughter, utter disbelief, or abject horror as he deadpanned, “I’m very sorry to tell you that yes, you inadvertently planned a photography project about Bucky Barnes getting sprayed with come, using your mother’s priceless pearls.”

Okay, that was it. Bucky was pretty sure that now he was really having a heart attack, and he stumbled across the room and collapsed onto the bed. Truth be told, he almost peed his pants (and by almost, he meant that he did...a teeny tiny bit). Even though he felt bad for poor, sweet Daisy, Bucky couldn’t stop himself from blurting out, “It’s all true! I  _ have _ been wearing a  _ lot _ of pearl necklaces lately. Strands and strands of them. Steve was so excited when he put the first one around my neck in my bed, then another one under the bridge as the cars raced overhead, and he wrapped another one, with big, freshwater pearls, around my neck last...”

“Oh my fucking god!” Daisy interrupted, shoving the necklace back into her bag and covering her face with her hands. “Oh my god. Oh my god!”

“Hey, at least we told you." Clint chuckled before leaping towards the bed, spreading his feet wide, and pretending to jack off.

Oh, this was gonna be  _ priceless _ ! They were gonna be barbecuing hot dogs and bratwurst thirty years from now, standing around in the backyard of Skinner’s mansion in the Hamptons and regaling their grandchildren with the tale of the time that...no, bad idea...they were gonna be reminiscing with one another over beers in a dive bar, fondly remembering that time Clint had pretended to shoot his load all over Bucky, just to make fun of lovable, naive Daisy.

Bucky rolled to the edge of the bed and tipped up his chin, as Clint took imaginary aim. Tugging down the collar of his badass Biggie shirt to expose his neck and chest, Bucky cackled, “I bet Ms J. is gonna give you the best grade in the class if Clint lands these pearls just right!”

“Oh my  _ god _ , just stop!” Daisy was pretending that she was super mad, but she was laughing too. How could she not?

Clint threw back his head and moaned while he ‘came’ all over Bucky’s exposed skin. A few hot drops of love juice landed on Biggie Smalls, and he was  _ not _ amused. Thugs don’t wear pearl necklaces! They wear chunky gold ones by Jacob the Jeweler!

“God, that felt so fuckin’ good," Clint growled, licking his lips. “Look at him, all pretty in my pearls.”

Little Daisy charged post-orgasmic Clint and knocked him backwards onto the ratty couch. “Shut up, asshole!” she yelled, pounding her fists on his chest. “You just ruined pearls for me, and I  _ love _ pearls! Audrey Hepburn is my idol, you bastard!”

He wrapped her up in his arms and planted a million smooches all over her cheeks. “Awww Daisy, you know you love me. Plus, I think that you should still dress Bucky up in your mommy’s pearls! He can give the picture to Steve for Christmas!”

That would be fucking hilarious! Bucky got an immediate picture of the two of them sharing their first Christmas morning together in Bucky’s living room. Steve would be happily sitting on the floor next to the Christmas tree, wearing some cute pajamas (maybe the kind that cute, little, old men wear), and gleefully ripping open the adorable snowman paper that Bucky had carefully chosen to lure Steve into a false sense of security before... Gotcha!...the truth was revealed!

“I’m so down for that!” Bucky nodded, making an imaginary frame above his head. “Blow my sexy face up real big... frame it in gold...”

“I have to admit that would be a Christmas morning to remember.” Daisy twisted around on Clint’s lap and grinned at Bucky like he’d just come up with the best plan to ruin Jesus’ birthday celebration ever!

“Yeah, great idea, but who’s gonna supply the pearls?" Skinner snickered. “I'm certainly not coming all over Bucky; even for the sake of art.”

Bucky tried really hard not to look at Clint...but he totally looked at Clint. And Clint was totally looking at Bucky...even though he was trying not to. Trying to deflect, Bucky exclaimed, “Jesus, Skinner. We’re gonna use the  _ actual _ necklace!”

“I know,” he quipped, popping a Dorito into his smartass mouth. “I just wanted to see what you’d say.”

“Oh, fuck you," Bucky laughed. “We’re doing it!”

“Yay!” Daisy poked Clint in the belly, then climbed off of his lap. “But  _ first _ we have to do this for real and I obviously need a completely new idea.”

“Well, join The Clueless Club, I have no fucking idea what I’m doing either.” Bucky rolled off the bed and started untangling the heaps of cords that powered the lights. “I’m supposed to be thinking of something ‘simple’, and I have no idea how to do that.”

“Well, my mom gets off work at eight, and that means if either of you are planning on gettin’ freaky, we need to get a move on.” Clint shrugged out of his black overshirt and threw it on the floor before stretching his bare arms over his head.

Bucky stopped untangling. It was an automatic response that would probably never fucking stop, no matter how much he loved Steve. It could be five degrees and Clint would still be wearing a mother fucking sleeveless shirt. Today’s selection was of the torn, Ramones variety, and the armholes were big enough that you could see straight out the other side. Maybe Clint had been taking fashion advice from White Trash Tony Stark? His hair was twisted into some sort of reverse french braid (wonder who did that?), and he kept right on stretching out his stupid shoulders, pulling them back and forth over his head until the stretch exposed his ribs, his obliques, his waist, and his mother fucking adonis lines (stupid white trash shirt). Bucky tried unlooping the stupid cords again once Clint finally stopped showing off.

Clint grabbed a Coke, cracking it as he said, “Mom needs the apartment quiet when she gets home, which means that you guys gotta peace-out by eight.”

As annoyed as he was by the stupid muscle show, Clint talking about his mom made Bucky feel all warm and fuzzy. Bucky had already known that she would be dead tired when she got home. He’d also known that the tuna noodle casserole he’d helped to create with his bare hands was for her...and by ‘helped’ Bucky meant that he’d accidentally spilled the entire bag of peas all over the top of the casserole, across the entire counter, so they’d rolled under the microwave, the coffee maker, and the decorative collection of ceramic roosters, and all over the kitchen floor. He’d done a stellar job. Anyway, Bucky _knew_ about Clint and his mom, and every time that Clint snuck out of the bedroom to peek at the casserole in the oven, they _all_ _knew_...even if Clint didn’t talk about her very much.

Bucky loved Clint’s mom Jody, who was actually his aunt, but since his parents had died in a car crash when he was two, she’d always been ‘mom’. She worked her ass off as a dental hygienist during the day, then waitressed at Louie’s Diner at night to make ends meet. Clint’s archery fees were expensive and, like everyone in Brooklyn, the cost of their apartment was skyrocketing (fucking millennial hipsters).

The two of them had gotten into a huge argument over the summer about Clint getting a job; Clint had wanted to get one...Jody had been firmly opposed. Bucky had inadvertently gotten stuck in the middle on the living room couch. As the situation had heated up to nuclear levels, Bucky had pretended that he was massively interested in reading an article about climate change in the latest issue of ‘Rolling Stone’. Rising sea levels? Fascinating. Higher planetary temperatures? Riveting. The only reason that Bucky usually cracked open a ‘Rolling Stone’ was to oogle the pictures of sexy, shirtless celebrities. Want to rub one off to Jared Leto’s shirtless, vegan body? Pull out your trusty soft-core cover of ‘Rolling Stone’. Need to get your rocks off in a bathroom stall without the risk of bringing  _ actual _ porn to school? Look no further than the issue with shirtless, red glove-wearing Justin Bieber plastered on the cover (yeah, he’d masturbated to Justin Bieber, sue him).

Anyway, Jody had been dead serious when she’d yelled, “You didn’t get this scholarship because of your winning personality, Clint! You need to keep up your grades and focus on archery; that’s your ticket out of here! You have your whole life to work a shitty job and live in a shitty roach infested apartment if things don’t work out!” As much as Bucky had hated to hear her say it, she’d been one-hundred percent correct.

FYI. The only thing Bucky had learned about climate change was that the picture of the polar bear floating away to certain death on a broken piece of ice had been fucking awful! He’d been scarred for life.

Bucky squinted at the mess of cords in his hands (like that would help). They were fucked up, plain and simple; DJ Alkatraz needed a lesson in proper cord wrapping. This shit wasn’t professional and Bucky couldn’t make heads or tails of the disaster. He’d tried shaking the shit out of them (fail), patiently untangling them one at a time (that was a lie), swearing at them (fail), and now he was back to shaking the shit out of them (failing 2.0). Skinner was  _ still _ shoving fucking Doritos into his mouth in the chair in the corner, Daisy was messing with the heaps of props, and Bucky was sick of these mother fucking cords!

He decided a better use of his time would be  _ pretending _ that he was trying to get these fuckers untangled, while he was  _ actually _ watching Clint’s aggressive attempts to yank his studded belt out of the tight loops on his jeans (at least  _ someone _ was getting  _ something _ untangled). It amused Bucky greatly that Clint was exactly like a chick taking off her bra to let her boobies out of their restrictive cage at the end of the day (Natasha had told him all about the horrors of underwire). For as long as he could remember, as soon as Clint got home from anywhere he’d always strip down to just his pants (the desire to throw dollar bills at him during this process was real). As a fellow human who wore a lot of shit, Bucky totally understood Clint’s plight. He’d read an article once (yes, really read it) that men who over-accessorized were ‘peacocking’; making themselves colorful and pretty to give themselves an edge when attracting a mate. With the amount of feathers Bucky and Clint glued all over themselves every day, he was shocked that they didn’t have harems. He rather liked the idea of being a peacock.

The heavy leather belt landed on top of the discarded shirt, snapping him out of his Avian fantasy, and Bucky took a minute to smell the casserole wafting through the vents.

Despite looking like he should be getting sucked off by Nancy Spungen in a dirty alley while Sid shot smack behind the dumpster, Clint was the most responsible kid that Bucky knew. Steve had firmly landed in second place, while Bucky probably fell into slot nineteen (maybe twenty-one). Sure, Clint smoked like it was 420 everyday, but he fed his green habit by selling to a few Eaton assholes who were too chickenshit to buy from a real dealer. Plus, he’d never lied about the weed to Jody; he never lied to Jody, period.

Boots and socks landed on top of Clint’s pile, and Bucky finally got one cord free (one of like, seven). The liberation of his feet freed Clint to lean back on the couch, wearing nothing except his low slung jeans and a white trash ‘shirt’. Seriously, Bucky could see his nipples, and his fucking piercings, and his  _ soul _ !  

Clint’s discarded punk uniform joined the piles of CDs, pizza boxes, DVDs, dirty clothes, empty cans, and comics that were already covering most of his floor. Bucky seemed to recall that there had been a rug in here at some point, but it had been so long since he’d seen it that he couldn’t remember the color. The mess made Bucky smile, and not just because it made Bucky’s room look spotless in comparison; but because it told a bigger story.

Ever since they’d met, Clint’s room had been a fucking disaster. But Clinton Francis Barton had  _ always _ kept the rest of the apartment spic and span, white glove clean, and ready for inspection. Bucky had watched Clint grow up and change from a snarky middle schooler with California surfer hair, pushing around an old vacuum in a Metallica concert t-shirt, to a high school senior with his mohawk proudly standing at full height, pushing around that same old vacuum wearing only a pair of shredded jeans. Throw on a ruffled apron, and Clint could be Susie Homemaker... if Miss Homemaker liked to dangle a fat joint from her lips while she scrubbed dishes and rocked out to Sublime.

Two cords! Bucky got two cords free! Five more...or was it six? Fuck. It was six!

“You gonna help me with these, dickface?” Bucky chuckled, throwing two mixed-up cords towards Clint’s lap. He totally missed and they landed on the floor in a heap, right on top of his pile of clothes.

“Can’t you see I’m busy?" Clint deadpanned, flipping open his zippo and firing up a joint. “I’m watching the  _ pea _ casserole to make sure it doesn’t burn. Plus, it looks like you’re making fantastic progress on your own.”

“C’mon, I spooned the peas back out! Give me a break!” Bucky got a third one free and screamed, “Yes! I’m a fucking Boy Scout!”

“Boy Scouts  _ tie _ knots, not untie knots," Skinner helpfully pointed out. Know-it-all.

Bucky rolled his eyes at the half naked fucker in the cloud of smoke. Clint was a great guy through and through: he got better grades than Bucky, killed it at archery, took great care of Lucky (and Bucky, ha), and even better care of his mom. The way he looked after Jody was one of the reasons that Bucky had fallen for his stupid ass in the first place. But now, staring at Clint’s laid-back pose, it was pretty obvious that something was different. A few months ago (to be honest, a few weeks ago), Bucky would have been leering at Clint when he spread himself backwards on the couch, remembering precisely how many times he’d sunk to his knees before him in that very spot. He would have gotten angry at himself for falling for his best friend in the first place, and beat himself up inside his head for at least thirty minutes until Clint fed him a Hot Pocket. But now? Well, now Bucky felt something like admiration, because it had taken really big balls for Clint to admit what he’d admitted...and it had somehow (thankfully) changed everything.

Skinner was  _ still _ shoving Doritos into his face (how the hell did he stay so skinny? Skinny Skinner...ha), Daisy had moved past the props and was carefully setting her camera on the nightstand, and Clint had sunk even further into the cushions to casually smoke his joint. All of them doing things that were so  _ them _ made Bucky remember the real reason that Clint’s messy bedroom had always been their designated hangout spot. There had been something special about the four of them squishing together on the fire escape to smoke weed and study for finals last May, and something wonderful about Skinner executing the perfect paint job on Daisy’s toenails while they’d argued if ‘The Hateful Eight’ took things too far. You really couldn’t beat scratching Lucky’s belly while anxiously watching Clint pierce  _ another _ ring through his ear, or marveling at the outrageously overgrown pube bushes growing out of the 1970s Penthouse magazines that Clint had stolen from his creepy uncle (a person could get lost in there! Pube Jungles!). Every stupidly pointless day that they’d spent doing stupid-ass stuff in this room had been fucking perfect.

Since Steve the Asteroid had smashed into Bucky’s life (a fantastic asteroid was still an asteroid), the four of them hadn’t had a proper gathering. Standing in the middle of the mess, Bucky realized just how much he’d missed it.

“Scooch over.” Bucky dropped the maze of cords then kicked at Clint’s bare foot. Falling onto the couch next to him, he sighed, “Lemme hit that.”

Clint pulled the joint out of his mouth and held it up to Bucky’s lips like a proper stoner gentleman. Sucking in the smoke, Bucky pondered the mystery of Steve. God, everything was so new, but it felt ...raw?...pure?…magnetic?...natural? Bucky blew out the smoke nice and slow while he tried to picture Steve chillin’ on the half deflated, blue bean bag chair next to Clint’s cherry sunburst Stratocaster...

When the white beans (why were they called beans? Were bean bag chairs made with actual beans at some point?) started popping out the side from Steve’s weight, Bucky would have to explain that Clint’s brilliant solution to fix the gaping hole in the seam had been to impale the fabric with a fuckload of safety pins and hope for the best. Steve’s smile would most definitely light up the room (because everyone could appreciate a good ‘Clint’s an idiot’ story), then he’d shove a greasy, melty slice of Anthony’s pizza into his face while he tried to get his sexy jock booty comfortable on the half-exploded bean bag. That image alone made Bucky grin. Leaning his head against Clint’s bare shoulder, he wondered if Steve would aggressively debate Quentin Tarantino with everybody? Would he get loud about reclamation of offensive words vs. exploitation for shock value? Yeah, there was no doubt that Steve would have a very dedicated opinion on the subject. Would he paint Daisy’s toenails? Well, he  _ was  _ an artist (he’d probably paint them even better than Skinner), so he’d probably do something mega cool, like creating tiny, colorful abstract designs or little graffiti letters on each nail, spelling ‘Daisy’s Feet’ across all ten toes.

Bucky unbelievably hadn’t thought about it before, but  _ he’d _ been the one crashing into Steve’s world. Except for their first Celine Dion night together and their whimsical Lucky Charms afternoon, Bucky had pulled everything in his life towards Steve. He looked at his amazing friends and realized he’d been an idiot, and that factoid needed to fucking change  _ immediately _ . If Steve needed anything in his life right now, it was endless bowls of marshmallow Lucky Charms, a furry doggy belly to scratch, and a complete and total change of scenery. Today at school had sucked so fucking hard and they  _ both _ could have used a heaping dose of pizza, a fuckload of weed, and countless hours dedicated to raunchy jizz jokes. But sadly, today Steve hadn’t been able to tag along and partake in the plethora of semen jokes...

“Hey, Clint.”

“Yeah, Sunshine?”

Bucky peeked at him, but didn’t say a word about the new name. ‘Sunshine’...he liked the sound of it. Poking Joey Ramone in his big nose, Bucky whispered, “I’m really worried about Steve.”

There was a very good reason that Clint was Bucky’s best friend, despite the drama, the chaos, the weird, sorta incestual three-way relationship, and the fact that he always stole Bucky’s lunch. The three little words that came out of Clint’s mouth demonstrated that reason perfectly. Three simple words to let Bucky know that he understood  _ everything _ ...three little words and a kiss on top of his head... “Me too, Sunshine.”

Steve hadn’t wanted to talk about Pierce today  _ at all _ , and it scared the shit out of Bucky. He was scared to death. That was it. There was nothing else to say.

“Hey, Clint.”

“Yes?”

“I think we need to Rage.”

“Oh yeah? You thinkin’ ‘Bulls on Parade’?” Clint hopped off the couch, yanking his ‘shirt’ over his head (apparently, he could only Rage topless), and made a beeline for his computer.

“Mmm, solid choice,” Bucky hummed, feeling oddly like he should take off his shirt too (he resisted), “but I’m leaning towards some heavy-duty ‘Bombtrack’ action.”

“Oh, shit," Clint drawled with a big grin as he powered up the speakers. “You ready?”

“I’m not ready,” Skinner muttered. He was helping Daisy to duck tape a big piece of cardboard over the window to block out the sunlight. He had a piece stuck to his lip. Bucky cringed, because that was gonna hurt like a son of a bitch when he tried to pull it off!

“Yes, you are, Skinner!” Clint hollered. “Get off your ass and Rage with us!” He made a huge show of hitting play and nodding his head to the beat as he turned the volume up, up, and up some more. Bucky wished that Clint’s hair wasn’t braided so they could do their best 1986 Headbanger’s Ball impressions, but he still looked metal as fuck (even  _ with _ his hair in a pretty Viking braid). He’d still look metal as fuck even if Natasha had woven delicate, yellow flowers into the strands. Tom Morello’s fast guitar riff started building, and Clint and Bucky started rocking their shoulders in unison, because shit was about to get lit! “Oh, Bucky, Sunshine of my life,” Clint yelled. “I love you so much! You’re a fucking genius!”

Nobody was gonna sit this out; Raging was a misfit tradition that had originated long, long ago, in a galaxy far, far away, the very first time that Skinner had gotten a B on a science test.

Clint grabbed the duct tape out of Skinner’s hands and threw it against the ‘Misfits’ poster on his door. “Get your ass over here, you brilliant mother fucker!”

“Fine!” Skinner tore the tape off (which was also very metal) and set his glasses next to Daisy’s camera. He knew the score.

With Skinner handled, Clint turned to Daisy, who was standing on the dresser, trying to avoid all the random shit while she taped the top edge of the cardboard. There was no warning before he wrapped his arms around her thighs and carried her into the middle of the Rage zone. Raging, like the morning-sing-along, was fucking mandatory!

It took a second for the groove to kick in, but when it hit,  _ it fucking hit; _ wallpapering Rage onto every nook and cranny of the apartment, blasting Rage through the brick and mortar of the entire building, and, most likely, shooting Rage down the entire mother fucking block. Fuck yes! This was  _ exactly _ the shit that Bucky fucking needed!

Brilliant chaos erupted as Clint and Daisy bounced high enough on the bed to pound their fists against the ceiling, re-tangling every single cord that Bucky had earned his Boy Scout Badge untangling. Who!? Fucking!? Cared!?

Skinner possessed preternatural rapping skills (god works in mysterious ways) and didn’t miss a single militant word. He even got right up in Bucky’s face, committing to the aggressive head nod that proved he and his skinny tie could rage against the machine with the best of them. The power of it was building in the warped floorboards; something heavy and substantial grounding Bucky’s blue boots to the rumbling wood. When the chorus detonated, all four of them screamed, “Burn burn, yes you’re gonna burn!” at the top of their mother fucking lungs; thrashing, headbanging, slam dancing in the middle of their own private mosh pit, and knocking over the mother fucking lamp! Bucky felt each word vibrating up through the muscles in his thighs, and it took him somewhere. Where? He didn’t fucking know, and he didn’t fucking care! He closed his eyes and let the tremor overtake him, and when Zack De la Rocha screamed, Bucky screamed twice as loud!

Fuck Brock! Bucky bent low at the knees, threatening to tear his tight pants right up the middle as he let his shoulders roll in dangerous waves with the pulsating anger. He snatched Clint’s heavy, black combat boot out of his pile and fucking whipped it as hard as he could at the goddamn wall!

Fuck Frank! Bucky would make a special trip to Hallmark to buy that dick a six-dollar thank-you card, scrawling ‘Thanks for saving my ass, figuratively and literally’ in black Sharpie across the touching sentiment inside, then call it a mother fucking day! Boot number two had somehow found its way into Bucky’s tight fist, and he was about to let it fly when Clint came up behind him. He slid his arm over the top of Bucky’s, trying to grab the boot out of his goddamn hand…

“Hey!" Bucky screamed, holding the leather even tighter because he needed to throw this goddamn boot at Brock’s snarling face right fucking now!

But Clint didn’t try to take it from him, instead wrapping his hand over Bucky’s clenched fingers to pull their arms back together. “Ready?" Clint yelled in his ear, grabbing Bucky’s hip with his other hand. Fuck yes, he was ready! Clint counted down from three, and they launched that mother fucking boot so hard that it knocked two pictures off the wall and put a huge crack in the plaster. It was the definition of cathartic.

As soon as that fissure appeared, the true power and beauty of Rage overtook everything, and shoes started flying in vicious arcs over Bucky’s head! One of Skinner’s grey Vans knocked over a can of Coke and it splattered all over Clint’s headboard, Daisy’s patent leather, red Mary Jane’s were leaving crimson marks on the ceiling with every brutal impact, and Clint’s boots did a hell of a lot more damage to the plaster; each impact smashing down all of the fucking bullshit! Bucky kicked off his dead Muppets and felt the pureness that fury can deliver as they flipped end over end. Every time one whizzed past his head, Bucky felt like was regaining a piece of his power; that maybe the next time Brock got close enough to touch him, Bucky would be able to smash in his mother fucking face with his Grover boot himself! The image of shattered bones, mixed with blood and blue chunks of fur, overwhelmed him and he laughed. He laughed, and then he screamed, “Burn burn, yes ya gonna burn” until his throat burned too.

Bucky gave himself permission to fall back against Clint’s bare chest as they rode the heavy beat under the thundering shower of shoes, and it was fucking beautiful!

When the song shuffled, oddly to ‘Tiny Dancer’ by Elton John (quite the contrast), Bucky fell face first into the tangled mass of black cords. He wanted to play the song again….he wanted to play the fucking song again and again for five hours straight! He wanted to rip off his shirt and slam his sweaty body into Clint, to throw himself against the bedroom door until the hinges exploded, and to bash his shoulder into every fucking wall until every inch of the plaster was cracked! Maybe he’d even hit the walls hard enough to snap the two-by-four studs that held everything together, splintering them like matchsticks. Bucky wanted to throw Steve’s white Nikes through the goddamn window, screaming loud enough for all of Brooklyn to hear him as the jagged pieces of glass rained down onto the sidewalk!

Fuck Alexander Pierce! Steve had been so focused on all the shit with Brock that he’d blown Bucky off every single time that he’d tried to bring up Pierce. Fuck that! Bucky  _ knew _ that Steve was freaking out, he  _ should _ be freaking out, and he  _ should  _ be screaming about it! Dammit! Bucky needed Clint to hit play on his goddamn computer because every single minute that the clock ticked forward...tick tock tick tick tick...meant that Pierce’s plane was that much closer to landing...that he was that much closer to hurting Steve.

Bucky jammed his nose against the tangles and tried to calm down. Carefree Incubus Island was so far gone that it almost felt like the love notes, that Bucky had carved into the sand with a crooked stick, had never happened at all.

“Hey, Bucky.” Daisy flopped down next to him and put a freezing can of Coke on the back of his neck.

Bucky popped straight up because,  _ cold!  _ “Jesus, Daisy!”

“You ready to take these pictures, kitten?” She was looking at him all sweet as she pressed the can into his hand, but she was Bucky’s official therapist with the big, comfy arm chairs, so he knew that it was actually thinly veiled mama cat concern.

The Coke fizzed over and ran down Bucky’s hands when he cracked it, and he chugged down half before jogging over to Skinner and burping obnoxiously in his face. It was a good one, big and hearty. Oh, to answer Daisy’s question; was he ready to take these pictures? He downed the other half, tossing the can into the corner behind the bean bag chair, because Bucky wasn’t ready for anything... _ burn burn, yes ya gonna burn… _ and he needed a minute to pretend that he was... _ burn burn, yes ya gonna burn… _

It took five breaths before Bucky was able to put on the mask.

How in the hell had Skinner ended up nose deep in his laptop, with his glasses safely returned to their house on his nose, in three minutes anyway? He was casually leaning back in Clint’s desk chair (even though Clint didn’t have a desk) and was ignoring Bucky completely, so Bucky burped on him again; this time close enough that their noses touched.

“Classy, Bucky," Skinner chuckled, plugged his nose. The impact of the burp attack had been minimal because he kept on typing a million-trillion-gazillion words per minute.

_ Burn burn, yes ya gonna burn _ ...Bucky tried to shake it off.  _ Shake it off _ ...like T-Swift but the heavy metal version. “What are you working on anyway?” Bucky asked, looking over the top of his upside-down screen. It had...schematics? For...something? It looked like a…? Bucky didn’t even have enough of a clue to say that he didn’t have a clue. “What the fuck is that? The plans for Prometheus? Are you colonizing a new world? Not a good idea; those aliens are gonna explode out of your chest and mess up your cute, checked shirt and fuck up your fancy ass tie.” Bucky reached over to tug on the navy blue fabric, but Skinner swatted his hand away.. _.like Bucky tried to do when Brock touched his...stop. _

“Well, working with Stark, colonizing a moon like LV-223 might eventually be possible." Skinner didn’t laugh, which meant that he wasn’t joking. He  _ had _ to be joking.

“Since when do you hang out with high school kids, anyway? Present company excluded," Clint asked as he helped Daisy move the lights around. “I thought that you were beyond all this shit?”

“I’ve had to reevaluate my stance on the idiocracy contained within Eaton’s walls since Bucky united our two clans. Turns out that Stark and Banner are worth my while. The Jury’s still out on Parker.” Skinner started talking really fast (and typing even faster), which meant that he was gonna lose Bucky at any second. “The way that Banner thinks about cellular structure and its potential for technological integration is astounding, and Stark asked for my opinion on the clean energy project that he’s running at MIT. That’s what you’re looking at here, and I’ve gotta be honest, this idea is going to change the way that humans think about energy.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about anymore.” Bucky snatched the half-empty bag of Doritos off the bed, shoving his hand inside before Skinner could grab them back.

“Yeah, you lost me somewhere around cellular structure.” Clint stole the bag from Bucky which was totally unfair! He’d only gotten four Doritos! Shoving the fourth one in his mouth he almost choked, because watching Clint bite the end off one of the orange triangles made him think about Steve’s perfectly proportioned Dorito body. Maybe four chips was plenty, because he’d already gotten his fair share of Doritos from his Dorito shaped boyfriend over the weekend. Bucky snorted for two reasons: first of all, he was thinking the word ‘Dorito’ way too many times in a row...Dorito, Dorito, Dorito...and secondly, because a person can never have enough Doritos, especially ones with  _ huge _ dicks!

Skinner snapped his laptop shut. “It doesn’t matter. The only thing that you need to understand is the fact that Stark’s inventions are going to change the world, and I’ll happily stoop down to that level. Plus, he’s got his own lab at MIT, so I don’t think that he’s considered a high school student anymore. I’m almost positive that the only reason he shows up at Eaton is the gossip and the captive audience.”

“Huh.” Bucky had a deep thought; a thought so deep that he was actually impressed with himself for thinking it. It was hilariously cosmic that Devin’s dad getting transferred to wherever had opened up a spot on the swim team, which had driven Sam and Steve to venture into foreign rooftop territory to beg Bucky to join the team, which had insanely resulted in ‘straight’ Steve dating ‘queer as fuck’ Bucky, which had then led to a Skinner/Stark Science Bromance, which could, in theory, lead to a new union of superhuman brainpower that might result in the whole of humanity completely changing its view on energy! Huh, indeed.

A butterfly flaps its wings and a tree falls down in the forest. No, that wasn’t right... If a tree falls in a forest can a butterfly hear it? No, not right either... If Bucky fucked Kevin Bacon, then Kevin Bacon fucked Kyra Sedgwick, then Kyra Sedgwick fucked a butterfly, then the butterfly fucked Skinner, and then Skinner fucked Stark, could Bucky take credit for the Six Degrees of Kevin Bacon? He could rename it The Six Degrees of Bucky Barnes. Would Bucky still have to fuck Kevin Bacon then? Not that he’d mind...but only if it was Footloose era Kevin Bacon...he had good hair. None of that made any sense. Bucky cracked up and gleefully pictured Skinner fucking Stark nice and slow from behind. Epic.

Daisy was desperately trying to shove some of Clint’s shit under the bed, but that was only pushing even more shit out the other side. “Clint, you need to pick up your dirty underwear so we can shoot these pictures!” She kicked a particularly stiff pair towards his closet and squeaked, “Gross, those didn’t even change shape!”

“It’s because I came all over them last night.”

“You’re kidding right?” Daisy looked completely horrified for the second time, and Bucky almost felt bad (not really). She’d been around them enough to know the score. Impressively, the underwear that she’d kicked had landed against the closet door, forming some sort of abstract come and cotton sculpture.

Clint cracked up, as he handed Bucky the mess of cords so they could hook up the LEDs. “I’m totally  _ not _ kidding.”

Daisy sounded genuinely grossed out when she exclaimed, “I swear to god, all you creeps talk about is come!”

Bucky tried to mentally count on his fingers how many times he and Clint had said the word ‘come’ since she’d arrived. He lost count after ten, because his brain needed more mental fingers to come up with the correct tally. He snorted, because ‘come up with’. Okay, okay, maybe she had a point.

"It’s because my come is high quality shit,” Clint replied in his best #thuglife voice. “I shoot it into little vials labeled ‘primo jizz’, and sell it as a bonus with my hand rolled joints.”

“Oh my god, will you disgusting pigs just move this shit and shut up? Bucky, can you plug in the lights?”

Was she serious right now? Did she not  _ see _ that Bucky was hanging off the bed and trying to shove plugs into the power strip behind Clint’s nightstand? Which, by the way, was dangerously plugged into  _ another _ power strip that was hidden underneath a zillion empty bags of potato chips, socks, and other random shit.

“Daisy!" Bucky hollered from his garbage prison. “Can you see me? Did Frodo throw his Cloak of Invisibility on top of my body when I wasn’t looking? I know he’s a little hobbit and all that, but I think I would have felt it if...”

“Shut up," Daisy interrupted with a big, fat giggle.

                _...shut your fucking mouth faggot...Stop!_

Not again. Not again. Not again. Not again...

Brock’s voice snarled through his brain, but Bucky tried to talk right over it... _ burn burn, yes ya gonna burn _ ...Shoving it down, he yelled, “I’m trying to plug this shit in, but I’m positive that adding one more cord is gonna start a fire.”

Clint peered over the nightstand and waved his hand, like daisy-chaining overflowing power strips was no big deal. “Oh, just stick ‘em all in, it’ll be fine.”

“That’s what he said," Bucky snorted, which was hilarious until he started slipping into the bottom of Clint’s nightstand dumpster.

“You mean that’s what  _ you _ said to  _ Steve _ ." Clint plopped down on the bed and shook Bucky’s zipper filled thighs like a fucking bowl of jelly (I don’t think you ready for this jelly...sing it Beyonce), and that bootylicious vibration was the thing that finally tipped the scales. Bucky fell face first into the chip bags, random lost lighters, used Kleenex, and other disgusting fire hazards. He was gonna die.

Daisy didn’t seem to give a shit about Bucky’s imminent death and exclaimed, “Did you really say that to Steve!?”

Even from Bucky’s perspective she sounded shocked. Surprise! Not. She was gonna need a goddamn pacemaker installed to jolt her precious little heart back into rhythm if they ever made it to the other side of this photoshoot.

“Jesus Christ, will one of you assholes pull me up!?” Bucky groaned and tried to maneuver his arms so he could push himself up, because this shit hurt! But when he knocked some of the trash out of the way, he found himself face to face with...he tried to breathe, because what the fuck! “Hey! What the fuck!? Is this a condom!? Clint, I swear to fucking god, is this a mother fucking used condom!"

There was no response.

Bucky stared at it, all crumpled up and stuck to the baseboard. Wow...just fucking wow. So, Natasha hadn’t been Clint’s first? Is that what this disgusting, crusty condom meant? That mother fucker! Did his sister know!? Had Clint told her all about it in a wonderful Playboy narrative? He sure as fuck hadn’t told Bucky shit!

Question: How mad could a person be at a latex dick wrapper? Answer: Furious! Bucky quickly decided that he had the right to express that anger by spitting on it (and not in the good blow job way) but it was hard from this fucking angle. He missed the first time, hitting the power strip with a big, juicy glob (maybe  _ that _ would short-circuit the thing). The second loogie landed pathetically on the garbage under his chin (most of it dripping towards his nose) and the condom of deceit remained unscathed. Of course it did.

Had Clint already sent Natasha the memo on his mixed-up feelings about his bestest friend in the whole wide world!? Had their conversation gone: ‘Nat, I  _ totally _ dig you, but I have this fucked up ‘thing’ for your brother too. Is that cool?’ Maybe the disgusting, crinkled up condom had been  _ inside his goddamn sister _ ! Maybe they’d already been fucking for months and had been lying to him… Bucky couldn’t deal. He couldn’t deal... _ burn burn, yes ya gonna burn _ ...

“Fuck you, Clint! I’m gonna die down here! I’m gonna die with my face three inches from this fucking condom and it’s gonna be all of your faults!" Bucky got spiritual, praying to sweet baby jesus that  _ someone _ would pull him out of this new layer of bullshit.

                _...you were really fucked up..._

_ Finally _ , tiny hands wrapped around his fiery, hot ankle and yanked him backwards onto the relative safety of the bed. Actually...that was bullshit...because they meant that he was that much closer to Clint, who seemed to be enjoying his new habit of keeping a shitload of secrets. He couldn’t even look at him.

The second that Bucky finally managed to get all four of his extremities back to horizontal, Daisy decided to hop on board to straddle his ass. “So, kitty cat, you gonna tell us all about your exciting, new sex life with Steve Rogers in graphic detail, or what?”

“If Clint explains the used condom that’s stuck to the fucking wall. You wanna fill us in on who you’ve been fucking, asshole?”

Bucky buried his face in the covers, but he very clearly heard Skinner say, “Besides your sister?”

“Hey!" Clint snapped. “Have some respect! That’s my girlfriend you’re talking about.” A familiar hand pushed up Bucky’s head as Clint knelt down next to the bed. Bucky tried really hard to sneer at him, really really hard, but he looked genuinely upset as he whispered, “I’ll tell you later, okay?”

I’ll tell you later. I don’t want to talk about it. Keep your mouth shut. Meet me at the top of the stairs. Not a fucking word.

He needed to Rage again. He needed Steve to stand right beside him and throw shoes too! He wanted to scream, ‘Just tell me who you’ve been fucking! Who have you been fucking!?’ but he didn’t... _ burn burn, yes ya gonna burn _ ... Instead, Bucky mumbled, “Yeah, okay. Whatever, man.”

“Bucky...”

That definitely wasn’t a denial, now was it? There was no ‘I’m not fucking anyone, Bucky. What in tarnation are you talking about? That crusty condom belongs to Lucky; he’s a very responsible dog when it comes to gettin’ it on with the bitches after his evening walk in the park.’ Nope. Clint just threw out ‘ _ Bucky… _ ’ with a winning combination of ‘liar liar pants on fire’ and ‘please don’t be mad at me desperation’. What the fuck was Bucky supposed to do with that?

Clint propped his chin on the comforter next to Bucky’s head and whispered, “I need us to be okay right now. Can we be okay?”

There was something in the mopey way he said it that made Bucky relent. Stupid Clint possessed the stupid superpower to make Bucky melt like his stupid, therapeutic superman ice cream  _ every single time _ . Bucky had spent over five years falling victim to the baby monkey vulnerability that Clint kept hidden underneath all his chains and leather, and that wasn’t gonna change anytime soon because Bucky was like an itty bitty kangaroo baby who liked to hide inside his mommy’s safe and cozy pouch. Even if his mommy was named Clint and was a big, metallic Decepticon. Bucky kinda dug the name Joey. Maybe he should tell Clint that his new nickname should be ‘Joey Sunshine’. He was making too many animal comparisons (that honestly made no fucking sense) and now he was picturing a gigantic Transformers Kangaroo hopping across the Australian outback.

Bucky sighed as hard as he could right in Clint’s face, then maturely stuck out his tongue at the turd who’d  _ obviously _ been secretly fucking bitches since he was thirteen years old (with Lucky as his wingman). Fuck. It was rude to call the ‘fuckees’ bitches. Apologies ladies. He needed a re-do. He repeated the sigh, re-stuck his tongue out at the Dipshit who’d been secretly fucking ten billion ‘lovely ladies’, sans dog.

“Fine, asshole. I can be okay with you, but I’m not in any way, shape, or form okay with your rogue cock.”

Clint patted Bucky’s head and said, “Thanks, Sunshine,” before he pushed off the bed to stand up in his shirtless glory.

“The name’s Joey Sunshine.”

“What?” Clint chuckled.

Bucky smiled, picturing Clint clinging desperately to his mommy’s furry belly as she leaped through the jungle trees. It still made no sense, but it was fucking funny, so… “Just roll with it, Baby Monkey.”

Clint just shook his head and grabbed one of the lights, while Daisy started rubbing her hands up and down Bucky’s spine (which felt awesome), but then she legit bounced up and down on his back like he was a plaid bouncy house, blown up for her personal amusement (which did  _ not _ feel awesome). She leaned over to grab her camera off the nightstand, smashing Bucky’s right kidney, and said, “C’mon, Bucky, we’ve got work to do. I don’t want to know what Clint does with his dick anyway.”

“Oh, but you wanna know what Bucky does with his?” Clint sounded almost offended, and Bucky didn’t even feel bad when he thought ‘good’.

_                ...I loved you too!... _

“Absolutely! Steve Rogers is  _ gorgeous _ , and I’m dying to know if he’s treating my kitten right. C’mon, Bucky, spill so we can shoot these pictures. Skinner, hit the lights.”

The room went dark, and Skinner’s disembodied voice inquired, “Where’s lover boy anyway? I thought he might have gotten an invite today.”

A single blue light switched on, illuminating the ceiling with a hazy underwater glow and casting a weird geometric shadow from the rickety fan. Bucky wished...jesus...he wished on five genie lamps that Kazaam, the ‘I dream of Jeannie’ Genie, Jambi, Jafar,  _ and _ Aladdin’s fat no-name Genie would instantly appear, granting him fifteen wishes (yay, math). All fifteen would be the same damn wish: that Steve would magically poof into the middle of the bed; his super beefy arm extended for Bucky to use as a masculine pillow. Bucky snorted, because he could market the shit out of that on QVC:

_"Good afternoon ladies and gentlemen._ _Yes, I know some men are tuning in for this special deal too; don’t be shy._ The producers would zoom in tight so Bucky could give a knowing wink to the camera. _Get your credit cards ready, because we only have a limited number of this new and exciting product in stock! Today, we are offering a limited edition, full size body pillow! It’s filled with the softest goose feathers that you could ever imagine and features a realistic screen print of a gorgeous, masculine blond! I’m telling you from personal experience that you’ll never want get out of bed once you’ve wrapped your arms around Steve Rogers! This body pillow will give you the best night’s sleep of your life and make all your fantasies come true! Call in now to get your hands on your very own masculine blond body pillow! Only $39.99 plus shipping and handling!’_

Even though Bucky was wildly rubbing his hands on the comforter, no genie appeared (sigh), so he simply answered Skinner’s question in lame, non-genie fashion. “Steve had to meet with Coach Fury and Sam to figure out the Brock situation; they have to replace him in four events. After that, he’s hanging out with Tony.”

                _...This ain’t over you know, you just made it worse_ . _... _

“Well, that doesn’t sound nearly as fun as Doritos and dick jokes," Skinner chuckled.  

“It’s not, and to be honest, Steve could use a fuck ton of Doritos and dick jokes; that is if you guys are really serious about letting him hang out with us.”

“Oh my god, sweetie pie, of course you should invite your hot boyfriend over!” Daisy lifted her weight and gave Bucky’s butt a playful little slap. Again, where was Steve when he needed him? Bucky could use a  _ not playful  _ butt slap too. Pushing at his hip, Daisy begged, “C’mon, flip over! I’m dying to know what it’s like having sex with him! Is it everything that you’d imagined? More? Does it hurt? Did you guys fuck fifty times this weekend? I need to live vicariously through…”

“I’m not just fucking him," Bucky interrupted, flipping over to rest his hands on Daisy’s narrow hips. Once she’d settled on his thighs, Daisy started poking Biggie in the nose (he wouldn’t like that either) and gazed at Bucky expectantly. She looked so pretty in her vintage white lace top, pointy black cat eyes, and the five dollar overalls that she’d dug up during their most recent trip to Sals. In the blue light she looked like a fragile, charming, and completely clueless porcelain doll. Bucky needed to clue her in so that she wouldn’t get broken by some asshole bull with raging hormones in a china shop. “Not everything’s about sex, you know.”

Handing Bucky the blue light, she quietly said, “But you’re  _ having _ sex, so there must be  _ something _ to it.” Angling it from the side, she directed, “Here, hold it like this.”

“Oh, he’s having sex alright," Clint snipped, falling back into the center of his ratty couch and fiddling with the purple light, flicking it on and off, on and off, on and off.

Daisy’s lens quietly focused as she scooched her butt onto Bucky’s stomach, bending the camera over him.

Bucky looked directly at the round lens (because this shit was important) and very clearly said, “It’s not like that with Steve; even the very first night that we touched in my room wasn’t like that. He wrote me a poem and told me that he loves me.” Daisy captured his admission with the mechanical click of her shutter.

“I told him  _ not _ to give you a poem.” Clint switched the purple light off, and his voice sounded emotionless in his dark corner. “I very explicitly recall telling him  _ not _ to do that.”

Daisy spread out Bucky’s hair on the bedspread before gently shifting his hands so the light was angled from the right. “What’s wrong with poetry?” she asked. “I think Steve Rogers writing Bucky a poem is the most romantic thing that I’ve ever heard.”

“Writing poetry is a sign of intelligence," Skinner interjected.

The switch flipped again and Clint shined the light under his chin, horror movie style. “It’s a sign of a melodramatic sap.”

Really? Bucky rolled his eyes towards Clint and knew in his heart that he didn’t mean it. Maybe he just wanted someone to write him a poem? Bucky could try but it would probably suck, and it would be super weird to ask Steve for help (more than super weird). Maybe Bucky could try haiku? He’d done okay with that in middle school. Easy enough. How many syllables were in each line? Five? Six? Seven? Jesus, he had no fucking clue. Whatever, he’d have to wing it.

 

“Best friend Clint I don’t 

Wanna jam Mötley Crüe with 

Anyone but you”

 

There was a big dramatic pause, and Bucky wasn’t sure if he’d nailed haiku like a poetry boss, or if it had been so bad that he’d killed everyone with seventeen syllables of awfulness.

Finally, Clint scoffed, “Was that supposed to be a poem?"

Well, at least they were still breathing.

Amusement dripped from Skinner’s tongue as he deadpanned, “That was  _ not _ a sign of intelligence.”

“Hey, I’m an artist!” Bucky suddenly felt very defensive of his poetic genius and yelled, “Don’t mock my words. And yes, Clint, that  _ was _ a brilliant poem and I wrote it just for you.” If Bucky stared into this light much longer, he was gonna go blind; he was already starting to see black dots. “ _ And _ you were completely wrong about Steve’s poem. I loved it.”

Click.

Daisy was trying to be subtle about it, but Bucky knew she was quietly swinging the camera towards Clint and twisting her lens to zoom.

“You loved  _ it _ or you love  _ him _ ?" Clint challenged.

Click.

When he turned his head to stare at Clint in his menacing purple light, Daisy ran her nimble fingers through Bucky’s ratty hair, brushing it back over his ears. There was nothing else to do but lay everything out on the table for consumption (whether Clint liked the taste of it or not), so Bucky took a deep breath and shoved the heaping plate right in front of him. “I loved the poem  _ and _ I love him.”

Click.

Bucky blinked, trying to clear the black dots from his vision. It took a second for them to disappear, but as soon as they did a feeling of peace spread over Bucky like a white dove holding an olive branch had flown straight into his forehead. Even in the middle of his blinding, bright blue cloud Bucky could see that Clint’s face had relaxed. He was nodding slightly as he stretched his light high above his head; creating his own purple haze.

Click.

It was the most honest moment between them in a very long time.

“Wow, I’ve got it. That’s it.” Daisy took a deep breath as she scrolled through the pictures, then stammered, “Thank you, um...really, thank you for that.” She seemed uncomfortable as she climbed off Bucky’s stomach and handed him the camera. “Um, so it’s your turn, kitten. Did you figure out an idea yet?”

Had he? Bucky looked at all of them: Clint, who’d gotten splashed in the face the very first time that twelve-year-old Bucky had done a cannonball into the pool at the YMCA, Daisy, who’d brought Bucky sweetness and light ever since the day that she’d slapped a metallic pink bracelet around his wrist while he’d been trying (and failing) to get his locker open in ninth grade, and Skinner, who’d taught Bucky that it was possible to wear an expensive, silk tie, look like Dylan O’Brien,  _ and _ have fun at same time. Marveling at his friends, who’d stuck with him through the marshes of deep, smelly shit  _ and _ had gleefully ridden with him over the happy Skittles rainbows, Bucky knew  _ exactly _ what he wanted.

Jumping off the bed, Bucky got mega excited because the answer was so damn simple! “Actually, yes, I have a fan-fucking-tastic idea! I want you guys to squish your faces together while I’ll tell dirty jokes and make you laugh!”

Skinner hopped up out of the chair, grabbed Daisy around her waist and spun her around a few times before plopping down on the bed. She spread out across Skinner’s lap (bride getting carried over the threshold style), and  _ shirtless _ Clint crawled up behind them to put his chin on Skinner’s  _ not-shirtless  _ shoulder. It was fitting, because it was so  _ them _ . Bucky switched on a fuchsia light and carefully placed it in Daisy’s hands, and, of course, she knew exactly what to do. She held it out in front of them so the light caught all of their distinctive features in its cheery, pink glow.

“So, the theme of your project’s gonna be ‘reactions to dirty jokes’?” Clint snickered, wrapping his hand around Skinner’s shoulder to pull on his tie.

He raised the camera to focus, his big smile peeking out from underneath the lens. “No, ding dong. It’s laughter.”

*****

  
  
  


Bucky had kept his phone two inches in front of his face as he’d walked home from Clint’s; stepping in a water filled pothole and drowning Left Grover, running smack dab into a bench full of people waiting for the bus, shouldering a lady wearing a wide brimmed hat and sunglasses (in the dark) who’d thought that Bucky had been trying to pickpocket her (just freaking out about my boyfriend...sorry), and had tripped on a stray dog that looked exactly like Benji...all in the span of a few blocks. 

Demon Pierce’s return from the bowels of hell, or Japan (or wherever demons go on important business trips) was imminent, and Bucky was waiting impatiently for Steve to text...and waiting...and waiting some more. Steve had promised to check in as soon as Mr. Evil Bastard had arrived, but nine o’clock had ticked by, then ten, then eleven. By five after eleven Bucky was fucking exhausted, stressed out, and ready to rip out his hair with worry.

At precisely eleven eleven (he wished Steve was safe) the text  _ finally _ lit up his phone. Bucky could tell that Steve was just as confused by the words he’d typed, as Bucky was confused by reading them. All Steve’s message said was, ‘He came home and told me that I have to attend his business dinner tomorrow? Then he went to bed? I miss you so much, baby.’

Bucky rolled over and shoved his face underneath his pillow, that he was now officially calling Mama Kangaroo (the furry version, not the kind that attacks Shia LeBeouf), and let out some kind of relieved, guttural sigh/yell/growl/ howl. Whatever it was, it felt damn good. After all the build up, Steve’s text was completely anticlimactic...thank fucking god! If Steve needed  _ anything _ right now, it was anti-fucking-climactic! Bucky stuck his hand out of his pouch and yanked his phone inside, typing ‘I love you’ and hitting send. It was pretty hard to breathe inside Mama Kangaroo, so he switched to lying on top of her belly instead before he crashed under the dancing lights of his glam rock disco ball.

Before he dozed off, Bucky stretched his hand out and touched the empty side of the bed, trying to imagine Steve’s masculine, blond shape (snort) making a beefcake indent on the sheets; but the mattress never moved.

He slept like shit.

  
  
  
  
  


Tuesday morning started off Twilight Zone calm; no fighting with Natasha about Bucky using up all the hot water during his shower, no ‘Inquisition: 2.0’ from his dad during the car ride to Manhattan, no TJ Campbell glued to the wall at the top of the locker room stairs sending off vibes that had, quite frankly, freaked Bucky the fuck out, no Frank picking pieces of dead cow out of his teeth...no nothing...except Steve kissing Bucky’s cheek after they’d both put on their swim trunks.

“You look so cute today, babe,” Steve whispered against Bucky’s ear.

“I’m literally wearing nothing but a swimsuit, Steve.”

“Exactly.”

Bucky giggled like an idiot and tried to rub his dick on Steve’s, but the goodie-two-shoes jumped back, shook his finger, and quipped, “Now Bucky, don’t be a naughty boy.”

It all felt completely normal, and the total lack of drama freaked Bucky out  _ even more _ .

Captain Steve Rogers seemed strong, confident, and very Captainy at practice as he stood in front of the bleachers to announce the changes in the lineup to the team. Bucky didn’t know what he’d been expecting; people running around the pool deck, wailing about the devastating loss of the delightful Brock Rumlow? But everyone was super cool, like it was just another completely normal Tuesday morning hangin’ around in an itty bitty swimsuit with a bunch of other dudes in itty bitty swimsuits.

The only plausible explanation was that the whole team had implemented ‘Survivor’ philosophy; after Jeff Probst snuffs out your ‘buddy’s’ torch, you pretend to be super sad and weepy as they walk off camera into the jungle, but as soon as they’re out of earshot you turn to the camera, break the fourth wall, and tell the millions of couch potatoes in the viewing audience, ‘I didn’t  _ want _ to vote him out, but since it gets me one step closer to the million dollars...see ya!’. Ezra, Charlie, Scott and Jack were the proud winners of Brock’s vacated slots and every single one of them looked thrilled as fuck to run to the bank and cash their fat, ‘Survivor’ checks. Funny how quickly Jack turned on his evil bestie when Brock’s primo slot in the four-hundred-meter relay was handed to him on a silver platter. Bucky laughed as Jack high-fived Trust-Fund Charlie. The tribe has spoken!

With each passing hour the day got creepier and creepier. It felt like he and Steve had eaten a couple of huge salads for dinner last night, and Bucky had gotten a big piece of romaine lettuce stuck in between his front teeth, while Steve had a big glob of ranch dribbling down his chin, but nobody was saying  _ anything  _ about it! Bucky had literally spent the four minutes of passing time between his first two classes peeking SWAT team style around every blind corner, ducking behind wide football players as he made his way to his locker, and listening for the sound of a safety clicking off...but nothing happened.  _ Nothing _ . He kept waiting for his teachers to bitch at him for falling behind, but they’d just taught Bucky a bunch of shit like everything was hunky dory and peachy keen. Even when Bucky had walked through the middle of the treacherous cafeteria, he hadn’t heard one shitty remark, gay slur, unfunny joke, or...  _ anything _ .

Bucky took his official seat next to Steve (he wondered how Sharon felt about that?) and everyone was too distracted by Stark boisterously running around the table, showing everyone snapchats from his ‘lovely Dippin’ Dot Macaulay’, to even say ‘hi’. Tony was obnoxiously moving from person to person, insisting that they take selfies with him using the dog filter so that he could bombard Macaulay with big ears and wagging tongues for no explainable reason. Currently, Stark was trying to get Castle in on the puppy fun (it wasn’t going very well), and Sam’s nose was buried so far in his phone that he hadn’t even  _ looked up _ when Bucky had sat down; his manners had obviously been overtaken by the power of Chloe. Skinner and Banner were debating the collapse of the universe...or Ridley Scott...who knew? There was talk of swimming, who Negan took out with Lucille, Peggy’s red dress with on-trend pockets, Pepper’s peppy pep rally, Halloween costumes, and Ezra and Clint were trying on each others sunglasses. What the actual fuck was going on?

“Are we invisible?” Steve whispered. He twisted a few strands of Bucky’s hair around his finger before leaning back against the big window to rub his hands all over Bucky’s shoulders. It felt so damn good.

“Maybe we’re just yesterday’s news? Andy Warhol was right and our fifteen minutes of fame have been all used up.” Bucky scooched his butt backwards and wiggled against Steve’s delectable chest muscles. He wondered if anyone would give a fuck about that kind of blatantly super gay contact?

Nope. Everyone at their table kept right on laughing at Tony, the Plastics kept right on sipping Diet Coke through tiny straws so they didn’t mess up their MAC Diva Matte lipstick, the computer geeks kept right on being geeky, and unbelievably, even the worst of the homophobic assholes kept right on shoving sausages down their throats without so much as a sideways glance. Creepy, creepy, and more creepy.

Steve’s fingers did a wonderful thing as they tiptoed around Bucky’s waist to rub the space just above his hipbones. He was instantly horny, which only got amplified a thousand times when Steve whispered against Bucky’s ear in some sort of low, porno voice that was to die for. “Or, maybe we’re so famous that everyone gathered together at the stroke of midnight in the school’s basement for a secret cult meeting and unanimously decided that ignoring us would be the best punishment for our carnal sins.”

“That sounds like a real possibility, Stevie. Or, it’s like magic! If you turn your back on evil Queen Mab you can defeat her, like the wise wizard Merlin! If nobody looks at us it will be the end of homosexuality in Camelot!” Bucky laughed as Steve’s finger circled his bellybutton over the striped cotton of his shirt. “Did you ever see that miniseries? Merlin with Sam Neill? So good! Anyway, if they turn their backs on us the  _ Queens _ will just disappear!”

“So we’re queens now?”

“Damn straight, and proud of it!”

Steve’s finger slid just a little bit lower and curiosity got the best of Bucky (and horniness...he was  _ very  _ horny). Glancing down at that naughty, naughty finger, he moaned, “Stevie, you should kiss me and see what happens.”

Since his wonderful boyfriend granted wishes better than any Disney genie, the second Bucky turned his head Steve sucked Bucky’s bottom lip between his teeth. He nibbled slightly before sliding his tongue into Bucky’s mouth, and it felt  _ so fucking good _ . Then Steve’s arms wrapped around his stomach and did the forceful thing that turned Bucky on like a...horny lion? That was stupid. Like a cat in heat? Gross. Whatever, it made him horny...ready to fuck. There, that was the perfect description. Steve pulled Bucky’s ass tight against his hips and  _ really _ kissed him; like a ‘The French would be extremely proud’ kind of kiss, with tongues _ everywhere _ . When Steve finally let him up for air, Bucky peeked at the horde to see their reaction, and... _ nothing _ .  _ Nothing!? _ The cafeteria had kept right on spinning like they weren’t even there.

Perhaps they were pushing their luck when Steve snuck his naughty hand under Bucky’s jean vest and pinched his nipple, or when Bucky rolled his naughty ass against Steve’s seriously naughty, hard dick? But, even at that pornographic level, it still took at least a full minute before Tony yelled, “Would you two stop fucking each other over there! I’m trying to get this bunny filter to work on me and Ezra and you’re fucking it up! My phone keeps putting the ears on Bucky the fucky bunny!”

That was it; a new Tony Stark nickname (what else was new?) and a messed up bunny Snap. Rod Serling  _ had _ to be hiding with the Twilight Zone production team behind the pasta bar, grey aliens were  _ definitely _ sneaking up behind them with anal probes, a coven of prep school witches were  _ obviously _ burning way too much incense in the girl’s bathroom down the hall, and Andy Warhol  _ must _ be primping his signature white, electrocuted hair to jump out at any second to yell, ‘I told you so!’.

“Hey, Buck, can we meet on the roof after school?” Steve kissed the back of Bucky’s head, and Bucky tried to stop imagining Warhol crawling around under the table.

Steve’s hard dick was still jammed right against Bucky’s ass, which was really fucking tempting and really fucking distracting.

“Can you bring this hard dick?” Bucky sighed, trying to stop himself from wiggling back against it, but he failed so hard (ha). Complete dick resistance failure. 

“If it stays hard for the next three hours I think I might be in danger. Those Viagra ads say to seek immediate treatment for an erection lasting longer than four hours.”

“Okay fine, I certainly wouldn’t wanna damage the goods. Can you bring your soft dick then?” Bucky grinned because he felt enough good seeping in to override the creepy.

Steve hummed, “As long as you bring those gorgeous lips.”

“Is that your way of asking me to suck your dick on the roof again? Because if that’s the case, I think it’s my turn to be on the receiving end.”

“Well, that wasn’t my intent but…” Steve hugged him tight and kissed his ear, before he set all kidding aside. “I just really want to talk to you before I have to go to this dinner with Alexander. Is that okay?”

In that moment, as Bucky nodded and squeezed Steve’s fingers, he sadly realized that the fact that nobody was paying any attention to them right now meant absolutely  _ nothing _ . Both of them had horrible things hiding in their closets that were coiled up tightly, preparing to jump out to destroy everything in their lives the second the lights went out.

Monsters always waited until after the sun went down...

*****

  
  
  


The invisible couple (not as catchy as Brangelina) sat on the edge of the roof, looking down over Bucky’s Mexican restaurant and Natasha’s Russian bakery. The line cooks weren’t arguing about which one of them had done a shit job refilling the mild sauce, or why Carlos had cockblocked Ricky when they’d been frying up taco shells with Annamaria. In fact, there was  _ nothing _ going on in the windows, Bucky couldn’t smell any spicy shredded chicken, and it looked like they were fucking closed. 

The warmth of the weekend was gone, fin, finito, and Steve was surprisingly wearing his spray paint hoodie from their colorful day under the bridge. Bucky was rockin’ his wicked cool jean vest, a black and white striped shirt, which Bucky had decided possessed some sort of punk rock, nautical flair (he was a trendsetter), his olive green beanie, and a fuck load of black eyeliner. For some inexplicable reason (hmm, what could that have been?), when Bucky had woken up he’d felt like the probability for guerrilla warfare had been high, so he’d busted out his clunky, black boots and had packed his black camouflage warpaint to smear all over his eyes after practice. Steve thought the eyeliner was hot, he’d told him so when they’d jacked each other off in the bathroom after lunch (the erections wouldn’t go away!), and Bucky had vowed to wear it more often. Anyway, sitting on the roof with his legs hanging over the side, Bucky felt completely overdressed.

He stared at his boyfriend (god, he loved that... _ boyfriend _ ) and felt all bubbly and sappy because Steve had decided to bring his graffiti hoodie to school; the top secret Art Spy disguise with the drops and splatters of spray paint all over it, the one that Steve only wore when he was sneaking out of that god awful place to create illegal art, the one that Steve had carefully spread out on the concrete when he’d gotten down to business on some  _ serious _ ly kinky rimming under the bridge. God, he looked so beautiful with the black, worn in hood bunched up around his face... beautiful and sad. Bucky felt the urge to grab a camera and photograph Steve snuggled up inside of his hoodie with the sun shining on his breathtaking face, but not yet...not in the middle of this shitstorm. He and Steve needed to find _ their  _ simple first.

“You’re wearing your hoodie.”

“Yeah, I think I’m gonna leave it on forever," Steve sighed.

“Even when you make love to me?”

“ _ Especially _ when I make love to you. We each get one item of clothing. You get to wear your collar and I get to wear my Art Spy hoodie.”

Bucky laughed because they  _ totally _ needed to do exactly that! Seriously, he’d do it right now on this roof, bend over the edge for the little old ladies in the Russian bakery as they put a fresh tray of honey spiced Pryaniki in their window and put on a real show for the Mexican line cooks as they squirted sour cream into fat burritos. But that probably wasn’t considered ‘making love’; Bucky couldn’t imagine that kind of scene fitting into ‘The Notebook’.  _ Anyway, _ he and Steve had a lot to talk about before they even  _ thought about _ dabbling with public fucking. God, what if they got caught? But that wasn’t the point...what was the point? Oh yeah, he needed to tell Steve something important and Bucky was blatantly procrastinating with dirty fucking fantasies.

Spit it out. He just had to open his chickenshit mouth and spit it out. Bucky let his fingers dance up and down Steve’s thigh for a few minutes to psych himself up, before he finally blurted, “So... Daisy printed out the pictures she took yesterday...” He tried to act all casual, swinging his battle ready boots in time with Steve’s white Nikes, all easy-breezy, but Bucky felt _anything_ but casual. “...and they’re gonna be on display in the main lobby downstairs next week.”

“Are your pictures going up too?”

“Yeah, but mine are of my dipshit friends laughing after I said ‘Justin Bieber has an eight inch cock, but it’s in his ass and belongs to Usher’. Daisy’s are a little more, um...they’re of me and Clint.”

“What!?”

Bucky was kinda an expert at playing dumb, and this moment in history most definitely called for the dumbest of the the dumb. Dumber than ‘Dumb and Dumber’ dumb. “Are you asking me ‘what?’ about Usher’s cock, or ‘what?’ about me and Clint?”

Steve pinched his forehead together and Bucky sighed...because  _ exactly _ . Steve was so right to pinch those cute, little, blond eyebrows together! How the fuck was Bucky supposed to explain this situation? It took a second, but he decided to go with his default setting of incessant rambling...

“I know, Steve!" Bucky exclaimed with way more enthusiasm than required. “Your forehead is representing my feelings exactly! I imagined Usher having  _ at least _ ten inches! I’m just as confused as you are.”

“Bucky…”

Dumb rambling wasn’t working. Maybe he needed better jokes to throw Steve off the trail? Or maybe he just needed to fucking spit it out! “Okay, I’m sorry, it’s just that…” Bucky sucked in a breath and tried to do a better job psyching himself up. “Well, Daisy took pictures when I told Clint that I was in love with you.”

“Um…”

“And when she showed them to me last hour, I...well, I thought that I really needed to tell you so that...um, so we could maybe go down to the art room and look at them together before she puts them up.” Steve was staring at him with a look Bucky didn’t fully understand, so he didn’t try to. He just kept right on rambling like a ramblin’ man. “They’re, jesus Steve, um...they’re pretty intense and I know that they’re gonna stir up even  _ more _ fucking drama, because everyone’s gonna see them and know that I’m talking about being in love with you, and the way Clint’s face looks is...”

“How would anyone know that you’re talking about me from a picture?" Steve interrupted.

“Well, um, that’s the thing. Daisy has these titles for each one that…” Bucky paused to blow out a big, blubbery, frustrated breath, because he didn’t know how to explain it...

 

  
  
  
When Bucky had showed Ms. Jaeger the ridiculously awesome prints of his friends laughing hysterically at bad dick jokes, she’d smiled, patted the back of his super sweet vest, and had said, “I’m so happy that you found your simple, Bucky.” 

Then, as soon as she’d looked at Daisy’s pictures, she’d turned back around, walked right back to Bucky, frowned, rubbed her hand gently on the back of his super sweet vest, and said, “Maybe I spoke too soon. Are you sure you don’t want to stay after school and talk?”

Yeah, no shit. That had been Bucky’s reaction too.

Daisy’d already had her images spread out in a perfect row on the table in the back corner of the art room, lying in wait for Bucky to show up for her emotional ambush. She’d looked uncertain standing there in her pegged mom jeans and a silky, pink paisley top with a built in bow and, as soon as Bucky had gotten within arm’s reach, she’d handed him a pack of Strawberry Bubblicious. In hindsight, Bucky understood this had been some sort of bubblegum peace offering, intended to make up for dissecting Bucky’s and Clint’s hearts so that everyone could see, in vivid, bloody detail, precisely what made them tick. When Bucky looked down at her pictures he didn’t feel invisible anymore...not in the slightest.

There were pale green Post-it notes stuck under each print, and Daisy stepped backwards as Bucky leaned forward to read her loopy handwriting. Wow. Just... _wow_.

In the first photograph, Bucky was staring directly into the lens, the electric blue light hitting his face from the right side. The left half was completely obscured in black shadow and his ratty beach hair was wildly filling the rest of the frame. But it wasn’t the light or the shadow that made Bucky drag in a shaky breath, setting his hands flat on the table to steady himself; it was his eyes. They were sharp and clear, like he was daring the camera to question the truth of his confession. Daisy’s little, green sticky note said, ‘He wrote me a poem and told me that he loves me’.

Bucky pulled his beanie lower on his head, because this was gonna get rough. In the second portrait, his hair was spread out around him and it looked like he was floating underwater. Daisy had centered his face with perfect symmetry, but she’d captured the moment that Bucky’s eyes had rolled impossibly to the right and focused on someone out of frame. Post-it note number two said:

 

‘Best friend Clint I don’t 

Wanna jam Mötley Crüe with 

Anyone but you’

 

How the hell had Daisy even remembered that?  _ Bucky _ barely remembered coming up with such a shit poem in the first place! But she’d written every single word exactly as he’d said it! His expression in the picture said it all. Even in the overexposed light you could see it plain as fucking day…

Bucky had to look away, ironically at the poster of Warhol’s Campbell’s soup cans (seriously, universe!), and shove two pieces of Bubblicious in his mouth to keep it together. He dropped the wrappers onto the floor next to his boots and counted twenty-seven cans, before he was ready to look again.

The third one was the hardest yet. The purple light was shining up on Clint’s features from below, his silver chain gleaming, and the horror movie shadows enhancing the subtle sneer curling at the corner of his mouth and the intensity of his narrowed eyes. They were focused on someone off camera...they’d been focused on Bucky...fuck. His stomach dropped, and Bucky really wished that he hadn’t eaten half of Tony’s grilled cheese sandwich and finished Sam’s ruggedly cut french fries at lunch, because he felt like puking them up as soon as he read what Daisy had written on her little square of truth. The green Post-it was curling slightly at the bottom corners and said, ‘You loved  _ it _ or you love  _ him _ ?’. Bucky had to shove another piece of gum in his mouth, because jesus fucking christ.

When he stared down at the fourth picture, Bucky knew immediately that he had to show Steve before Daisy put them up in the lobby (if she could put them up at all). He also knew that he _ and  _ Clint had to show Natasha, like  _ yesterday _ ! Daisy was standing there in her cute little outfit, sheepishly asking the four of them to pull out the keys they kept hidden in the darkest recesses of their respective closets, and to unlock their secret diaries for everyone to peruse and judge like the latest issue of US Weekly. Quite the request when they hadn’t even shared the most controversial passages with one another’s other. God, they were all fucking idiots!

Bucky’s face was in profile, his hair spread out behind him in messy, blue waves. The light was so strong that the details of his nose and lips were obscured, but every secret was revealed in his eyes. The way his lips were slightly parted, and the subtlety of his lowered brow, made him look softer and somehow sad...

Before Bucky could even  _ think _ about reading the post-it note, he had to shove a record fourth piece of strawberry Bubblicious in his mouth, chomping until it was a huge gooey glob. His heart was pounding as Daisy’s loopy letters came into focus. He wanted to cry (who was he kidding, he was totally gonna cry), because it said, ‘Both’.

Daisy’s lens had captured the exact moment Bucky told Clint that he was in love with Steve Rogers.

She tentatively touched Bucky’s hand when he stepped in front of the final picture. It was of Clint; Clint, who’d taught Bucky how to swear in English (‘fuck’ had been his first lesson); Clint, who had fed him superman ice cream (which was never stupid) with a giant spoon; Clint, who’d introduced him to Tool and System of a Down; Clint, who had called Bucky ‘Cupcake’ until it changed to ‘Sunshine’; Clint, who…

Bucky took a breath, counted to three, then really stared at the image.

Clint was holding the purple light above his head, capturing every detail of Natasha’s warrior braid and the symmetrical strength of his muscular shoulders. But it was the look on his face that made Bucky start crying. The sneer, that had been so present in the third image, had been replaced by the tiniest hint of a sad smile. Daisy’s post it note had simply read, ‘Letting go’.

He’d had to step out of the room to compose himself.

  
  
  
  


Now, sitting on the edge of the roof, Steve was staring at him in a way that told Bucky it was okay to tell him the truth. “Everyone will know that I’m talking about you because Daisy wrote these really, really revealing titles and phrases underneath each picture. I didn’t think a few words could tell the whole story, but I had to shove seven pieces of bubble gum in my mouth just to deal, and to tell you the truth, my jaw  _ still _ hurts!”

Steve brushed a stray hair away from Bucky’s nose, and his face softened into something warm and comforting when he murmured, “At the end of the story, do we end up together?”

“Yeah, Stevie,” Bucky answered without any hesitation, “I’m pretty damn sure that in our story we’ll  _ always _ end up together.”

Chuckling, Steve tucked his fingers under Bucky’s super cool beanie to squeeze at his earlobe. “Well then, I’m not worried about it. Although, based on your extreme freak-out level, I’d definitely like to see them.”

“How can you be this understanding about everything?" Bucky was amazed, really fucking amazed, because Steve was...well, he was something indescribable.

“Because I know I can trust you.”

“Oh yeah?” Bucky felt lighter already. “I trust you too, Stevie, but we better not do a trust fall right now, since we’re recklessly sitting on the edge of a four story building.”

Steve reached into his pocket and said, “Probably not," before dropping a shiny quarter over the side. They watched it falling towards the sidewalk until it hit the concrete and bounced into the street. Bucky wondered where it would end up; would a homeless man find it at four in the morning? Maybe a street sweeper would suck it up into its frightening, spinning wheels? Perhaps it would end up getting washed away in the rain, tumbling into the sewers to chill with the rats and alligators? But Bucky was feeling optimistic, so he was gonna go with the happy ending; a small child, wearing a Brooklyn Dodgers baseball hat, would spot the quarter at the curb and snatch it up in their tiny fist when the light turned red. Then they’d run to the candy shop (not the 50 cent variety) to buy themselves a big, red gumball of happiness. Bucky was a firm believer in the power of gum, and he had high hopes that their fallen quarter would spread the chewy joy.

But enough about gum, Bucky was determined to bring up the thing that Steve had stopped Bucky from bringing up all day. Steeling himself, he kicked at Steve’s shoe. “Sooo, we’ve been up here awhile and you haven’t said anything about Pierce.”

“You haven’t said anything about Brock.”

Bucky cringed.

                _….I might have gone easy on you before, treated this ass nice, but not anymore..._

Instantly, Steve reached out and started stammering out apologies. “Shit. Shit, I’m sorry. I’m sorry, baby. I’m just on edge about it. God, that was horrible of me. Why the hell would I say...”

“It’s okay, I’m fine.”

              ... _ Burn, burn, yes ya gonna burn. _ ..

Steve peppered his cheek with soft kisses, gripping the back of Bucky’s neck until the squeezing sensation started pulling his heart back into rhythm. Brock’s not here...You’re on the roof...You’re on the roof with Steve...

“...last night at Tony’s, he devoured  _ all _ the fish tacos that I brought, but then he helped me come up with a plan so I forgave him, even though I was starving.”

What? Bucky shook his head, waiting for the windows above the bakery to snap back into focus. It took a second, but he managed to reply, “Well, that was shitty of Tony. Fish tacos are to die for. You said a plan? What’s the plan?”

“To be honest, I’m still letting it sink in, and I’m not quite ready to talk about the details. I think it could work, and it’s a real possibility for me to get out,  _ but _ ...it’s not the direction that I was originally thinking and…” Steve’s eyes flicked down to the street, just for a fleeting second, but it was enough to allow a horrific image of Steve silently pushing himself over the edge to invade Bucky’s head. “...it’s just a lot, and I need to think about it some more. Is that okay?”

                _...I don’t wanna talk about it..._

Bucky blinked and tried to stop the paralyzing images of falling, but bricks and glass kept flying past him at high speed as Steve tried desperately to reach out with burnt, peeling skin...

“Bucky?” Steve reached over and grabbed his wrist. “Hey, are you okay?”

                _...Your arm, oh god, Steve. What? Oh my god, when…_

“Yeah, yeah I’m good. I’m just really worried about you.”

“Yeah," Steve chuckled. “Me too.”

                _...me too..._

He wanted to throw a shoe through the window of the bakery; smashing the cakes, tarts, and pastries with the skin of his dead Muppet, or dead cow, or whatever dead thing with its guts ripped out that he was wearing on his fucking feet! But he pushed it down, deep in the dirt, and hissed, “Pierce better not fucking touch you again." Bucky felt shaken. He was shaken  _ and _ stirred, fucked up  _ and _ fucked, but he shook it off... _ shake it off, shake it off. _

Steve didn’t respond. He just stared and stared at the cars, taxis, trucks, and motorcycles that were crawling down the street, until he carefully pulled Bucky into a kiss that was slow as molasses and somehow strange. When Steve’s tongue slid into his mouth, Bucky got the weirdest urge to suck on it...to pull it inside and never let go...and it scared him.

After Steve released him, he carefully stretched his perfect body out along the ledge. Staring up at the fall sky, he whispered, “The street seems quiet doesn’t it?”

“ _ Everything _ seems quiet. All damn day! I feel like we wandered into chapter thirteen of a Stephen King novel or something...you know, that one with the fog.” Bucky picked at the points of Steve’s hair (it was doing an excellent wave kinda thing in the front), then pulled up his legs. “Do you feel it?”

“Yeah, baby, I feel it.” Steve sighed before flipping onto his stomach and letting their fingertips touch. “So, if I told you something weird... like, for example, the whole time that we’ve been up here, two huge ravens have been sitting on top of that light post staring at us... would you think that I was crazy?”

Bucky looked at the light post and raised his eyebrows super high, because there definitely weren’t any spying ravens sitting there; no black crows, no fat pigeons, not even a pair of itty bitty sparrows. The light post was just a light post in need of a serious paint job. “Um, are they gonna attack us? Was I wrong about Stephen King? Are we actually stuck in an Alfred Hitchcock film? Like ‘The Birds’ when the scary crows gather, all black and menacing, on the jungle gym? Holy shit, I watched that movie with Natasha when we were thirteen and we still didn’t speak English very well, so we had  _ no idea _ what the fuck was going on. It was just a terrifying flock of insane birds chasing around a pretty blond lady and picking out people’s eyes for no good reason! I might still have an irrational bird phobia, so if your ghost ravens are gearing up to dive bomb my eyeballs, you need to give me a heads up.”

Steve’s eyes drifted to the empty pole and he smiled at it. Back that up. His boyfriend  _ smiled _ at two imaginary birds on a fucking pole!

“No, Buck, your eyeballs are safe. I think these two might be my friends. It took me awhile to figure that out, but as long as I can see them I know that we can make it out of the fog.”

“Steve…”

“Yeah, baby?”

“You sound batshit crazy.”

Steve snorted and leaned forward to nip at Bucky’s fingertips, but quickly grabbed his hand instead. “I probably am, but I have bigger problems right now, like this dinner. I don’t want to go. Last night, as soon as I got back from Tony’s, it all started again. Jade teetered over on her pointy assistant heels, informed me that my presence was required with a swing of her sharp bob, then pointed at the awful suit that I’m supposed to wear. Bucky, the thought of putting it on is...it’s just...I don’t even want it to  _ touch _ my skin. I don’t want  _ anything _ to touch my skin except this hoodie and  _ you _ . When the elevator opened and  _ he _ strolled out, I just…” Steve pressed his cheek against Bucky’s Nirvana patch before continuing. “I swear to god, he looked me up and down and said two sentences. Gone for a week and all he said was, ‘I’m glad to see that you look presentable enough to meet your obligation tomorrow. You better not be distracted like last time.’

I just...how am I supposed to put on a show for these people when all I wanna do is run? The last time I had to go to one of these things, he smashed me into a doorframe because I’d been thinking about  _ you _ ...and that was before I even  _ knew _ you! And the Gala is tomorrow night... and I’m supposed to wear the tux that we picked out, and it’s paisley... Buck, I just want to…”

Steve glanced at the post again, and Bucky wondered if Steve was, in fact, bat shit crazy? Whatever, so was Bucky; the voices that had been bouncing around inside of his head for the past two days could attest to that. They could probably have a whole conversation about it all on their own; no input from Real Bucky required. He pulled at the strings on Steve’s hoodie because he was starting to breathe way too fast...

               ... _ Goddammit, I just need to make sure he’s okay before we go... _

“You know what I wanna do, Stevie?”

“Hmmm?” Steve murmured, rubbing his cheek harder against the inseam of Bucky’s shredded jeans.

“I wanna brush my teeth while I’m singing ‘I can’t feel my face when I’m with you’. I wanna sing the lyrics so loud that globs of foamy toothpaste drip all over my chin, making me look like a rabid version of The Weekn’d. Then I wanna shimmy down the hallway to my room, do a fabulous spin before I push open my door with a flourish, and instantly smile like a big, sappy idiot because you’re already there, snuggled up like a cozy little panda in the star covered comforter.”

“A panda?”

“Yes, a cozy little panda. Shh, this is important.”

The corner of Steve’s mouth curled up in a tiny smile as he mimed zipping his lips. His breathing was almost back to normal.

“I wanna crawl in bed with you and feel how warm the sheets are, while I snicker at your gross drool puddle on the pillow. Then I wanna laugh a little louder when I notice that you’re wearing my taco pajama pants, because those would be a truly excellent choice. I’d spend a few seconds marveling at your foxy muscles...because I can’t help it. I’m a horny teenager and you’re beautiful...what? Next, I wanna think about how lucky I am to be sharing a bed with such a talented, smart, creative, gorgeous, sensitive, sexy, kind, funny, sarcastic, and brave human being while I push you over so I can wrap my body around your back. My greatest wish is to not feel my face and big-spoon the shit out of you!”

Steve squeezed their fingers together, peeking up at Bucky with so much adoration that he felt legit dizzy. “What do you want to do then, Bucky?”

“Oh, that’s easy. Then I wanna fall asleep.”

Steve huffed out a breath and tipped up his head towards the grey sky. “That would be a dream come true.”

“Tell me about it!” Bucky kept right on going, because they fucking needed this. “Then I wanna wake up in the morning to a completely quiet house, and lie there doing absolutely nothing like the world’s laziest sloths, collecting moss on our backs, for as long as we want.”

“We haven’t gotten anything close to that yet, have we?”

“No, not at all, and I think that we deserve something simple.”

Steve paused then, the long kind of pause where you’re realizing that you’re surrounded by bubbly love, first love where you’re loved right back, and it’s flapping around your face like a zillion happy butterflies, and you feel like you’re dancing, even when you’re barely touching fingers on the edge of a tall building, and it’s _awesome_. Bucky could see the beautiful monarchs and swallowtails fluttering around in Steve’s blue irises when he said, “God, Bucky, I love you so much.”

As soon as those words came out of Steve’s mouth, Bucky figured it all out. The answer that had been eluding him for days landed right in his lap, and the words rolled off of Bucky’s tongue like the remnants of a melted bomb pop. “Stevie, the simplest thing in my life right now is loving you right back.”

The quiet that surrounded them felt like peace, and it was the most welcome transformation.

They just sat there, every hint of creepiness totally destroyed, doing nothing except intertwining their hands like sappy teenagers were supposed to do, and watching Steve’s crazy, imaginary birds combining with Bucky’s weird butterfly cloud into some sort of National Geographic special about the nature of insanity. Bucky could have stayed there forever, but his pocket started vibrating with Natasha’s horrible texts that it was time to go home.

Home.

When Bucky let go of Steve’s hand to hop back down to the roof it hurt, like he’d slammed his fingers in the door of the limousine as it had started driving away Sunday night. He hugged Steve into his chest and prayed that somehow wishes came true; genies, wishing wells, fallen eyelashes, ruby red slippers, shooting stars, the great and powerful God himself...Bucky didn’t give a fuck who helped him.

Squeezing even harder, he tried to pull Steve inside of him for safekeeping (gross, but he’d totally do it if he could). Every fiber of his being meant it when Bucky said, “I wish I could take you home with me  _ right now _ and spoon feed you delicious, sugary Lucky Charms for dinner, instead of whatever scary, rich people food you’re gonna have to eat off tiny plates tonight! But my dad would probably get pretty salty when you ultimately lost control and shoved the entire box of Lucky Charms into your mouth, then decided to wear the box as a hat during your sugar rush frenzy. I mean, Stevie, you even ate the oat part!  _ Nobody  _ eats the gross oat part!”

Steve’s smile lit up the entire rooftop as his feet landed on the tar. “C’mon baby, you know I love  _ everything _ about Lucky Charms.”

*****

  
  
  


Bucky was lying in bed late that night, trying to make himself do pablo escobar rojo del futbol, when his phone rang. Steve’s beautiful smile lit up the screen under his new name: ‘Batshit Crazy Love of my Life’. He must  _ finally _ be done with Pierce’s horrible business dinner. Thank fucking god! 

Every time the selfie they’d taken on the beach popped up on his screen, Bucky felt like a giddy little troll (the glittery one minus the gross glitter farts). They’d snapped it a few minutes after Bucky had said ‘I love you’ and Steve had said ‘I love you too’...god, his stomach felt all fizzy... love really did feel fucking unbelievable! In the picture they were both wearing sunglasses, pink vs. silver, and Bucky was sticking his tongue in Steve’s ear to make him laugh. He looked fucking adorable! They both did! They deserved a first place blue ribbon for cuteness!

Rolling over to snatch up his space unicorn and knocking his Espanoli creamio canoli onto the floor in the process, Bucky smiled like a sparkling silver idiot when he hit the green button.

“Hi Stevie, how’s my gorgeous lov…”

“Buck…" Steve’s voice interrupted and every single fizzy bubble popped as Bucky’s stomach dropped four stories and hit the floor. “Buck, I stuck to the plan.” He sounded incoherent and Bucky could tell that he was crying. A horn honked in the background...

“Steve, what’s wrong! Where are you!?”

“Driving.”

“What!? Driving where?”

“To you. They’re gliding above the wires and I need to follow them... I understand that now. I’m almost across the bridge. Thirteen bumps left.”

“Steve, you’re scaring me! What’s happening?”

Words kept spilling through the phone, but only half of them made any sense. “I need to go to the hospital. Can you take me to the hospital? Someone needs to tell Tony. Tony said to tell him if the plan worked. Is your dad home? I think we need your dad for this.”

“Yeah...” Bucky felt the tears coming as he tried to run towards his bedroom door. “Yeah, Steve, um, oh fuck...I’m getting him now. Just pull over and tell me where you are! You shouldn’t be driving. Where are you!?”

“No, no, I can’t. I just wanna get to you and my ravens are flying east. They’re flying so fast. I can’t stop now.”

“Stevie...oh my god...”

“I can see the end of the bridge, Buck. Do you hear the bumps? Thirty seven, you know. Thirty seven to escape. I don’t ever want to go back. Please don’t make me go back.”

“Jesus…”

“I’m gonna hang up, baby. It’s getting harder to see them. It’s so dark.”

“Steve! No! Don’t hang up! Don’t…”

The line went dead.

  
               ... _ I honestly don't know what he’ll do, Bucky. And I honestly don’t know what I’ll do _ …

               ... _ I love everything about Lucky Charms _ …

  
  
  
  


Bucky paced back and forth in the garage and he had no mother fucking idea how he’d gotten there. None. The last thing he remembered was the feeling of sheer terror when the phone had gone silent, and poof... he was standing in the middle of the garage under the flickering fluorescent light with his dad and Natasha. The garage door was wide open and the neighbor’s cats were howling; they sounded so loud and he felt so fucking afraid. Bucky looked down at his phone and the screen was cracked. How the hell did he crack his phone?

“My phone’s cracked," he said...or, maybe he said?...it sounded like he was listening to himself talking from someplace far away.

“Bucky, you dropped it when you tripped on the stairs.” Natasha was looking at him funny...was he funny? He didn’t feel funny. He felt...sick…

“Hey,” she asked quietly, like she was a quiet little mouse hiding in the corner of a library. Bucky hadn’t been in a library in a long time, and he was rarely quiet when he was. “Bucky! Don’t you remember?”

_                ...I don’t remember a lot of it… _

“How long since Steve called?” Bucky stared at the broken screen and he couldn’t see their picture...why couldn’t he see their picture!

His dad was standing in the opening of the garage and turned to looked at Bucky funny too. “Fifteen minutes. Bucky, are you okay?”

_                ...Your arm, oh god, Steve. What? Oh my god, when… _

“Dad, what if he’s…”

“Don’t do that, Bucky.” Suddenly, his dad was right in front of him, grabbing his shoulder. The light was really bothering Bucky. It was so bright. And those fucking cats! Somebody needed to shut those fucking cats up! “...give him a couple more minutes then I’m calling the police.”

_   ...Baby, I told you that I’m gonna get away from Pierce... _

“It’s his stepdad!” Bucky yelled, tears and snot running down his face. “I  _ knew _ something like this was gonna happen! I fucking  _ knew _ ! He flew in late last night, and Steve was being weird about some plan today, and I didn’t push him about it because I was thinking about butterflies, and it’s all my fault!”

“It’s not your fault no matter what, son. You’re getting ahead of yourself.”

“Am I!? Am I really!?”

“Bucky...shhh.” Natasha grabbed onto his hand, taking the broken phone, the broken pink vs. silver sunglasses, the broken puka-shells, and the broken beach; she took it all so that their dad could get back to staring down the alley at the tomcats as they backed their victims into hidden corners that smelled like chlorine.

“It’s been too long.” Bucky swiveled his head to his sister...the buzzing light was driving him crazy! “It’s been too long!”

                _...We haven’t gotten anything close to that yet, have we?..._

Suddenly, headlights hit his dad’s form. Bucky yanked his hand away and stumbled into the middle of the alley, his boots slipping on the pebbles and broken concrete. The big black Escalade was creeping down the tight space, and Bucky’s panic rose with every slow inch.

Mr. Newman’s garbage cans were sticking out, because they were  _ always _ sticking out, and when the spaceship veered to miss them, the mirror bashed against the brick wall; snapping the metal right off and sending it to its death underneath the wheels. The front corner creaked and moaned as it bent inwards, creating orange sparks until everything ground to a sickening halt twenty feet in front of them. Then nothing. Just headlights and the sound of the motor.  _ Nothing _ .

“Dad...”

“Don’t move. Either of you.”

Natasha stood beside him (she’d always stood beside him, hadn’t she?) as their father’s silhouette jogged to the truck, his shadow growing longer and longer the closer he got. Steve’s father was dead, and his fake father had probably just killed him. Bucky wondered if Pierce had used a gun? The passenger door was yanked open and their dad disappeared.

“Nat...”

“Just breathe.”

“I can’t...”

_                ...When he burned my arm I almost snapped. I thought things...bad things… _

“I can’t…”

Bucky counted eleven seconds, before he was suddenly at number thirty-one and his dad was leaning out to peer over the door. He yelled so loud that the echo bounced up and down the alley, making the cats, and the rats, and the rapists scatter. “Natasha, shut the garage! Bucky, c’mon, I need your help.”

_                ...I’m not gonna kill him _ ...

“Now!”

There was some sort of crunching sound as Bucky started walking into the light, and it was confusing because it didn’t sound like the oat parts of Lucky Charms getting chomped up between Steve’s teeth, or the crunch of potato chips while they were watching ‘Star Trek’ with their feet touching. Crunch, maybe it was the wrong cereal? Maybe Steve wanted Captain Crunch? His foot slipped on a crumpled can of Dr. Pepper and Bucky realized that his boots had done it...his black boots had made the noise, and it sounded like charred bones crunching under the treads of a tank. There had been a war today after all...

He saw his dad climb back in the truck, but Bucky only counted four steps before he was somehow standing by the open door, wearing combat boots that he had no memory of putting on his feet...

Bucky was in no way prepared for what he saw when he looked into that fucking truck, not that you ever could be, he supposed. There are times on shows like ‘Grey’s Anatomy’ or ‘NCIS’ where there’s something so horrific happening that the director puts everything into hyper slow motion, distorting the sound or removing it completely, so the main character can only focus on the horror. After an effective amount of silence, another actor always has to dramatically scream, ‘snap out of it!’ Bucky didn’t think that he could snap out of it, even if McDreamy, McSteamy, or even Dr. Meredith Grey herself screamed that line of dialogue right in his fucking face.

Steve was slumped over against the door, and there was a huge smear of bright red blood running diagonally across the window. It was thick enough that it was dripping in long lines down the glass, and it made Bucky think about their molasses kiss and viscosity. The blood was as viscous as dark brown molasses on a hot summer day. His dad was leaning over and holding the wheel, so it was hard to see, but Bucky glimpsed a giant cut across Steve’s cheek and blood pouring out of his broken nose, and…

“Bucky!" his dad yelled. Oh, there it was...the ‘snap out of it’. It did work. “Bucky, I need to back up the truck, so we can move him. Roll down the window and tell me if I’m gonna hit anything. Can you do that?”

Somehow he nodded, or at least he thought he nodded, but he did manage to press the button (this stupid truck had so many fucking buttons) until the tinted window disappeared out of view and put everything on full display. Stepping back, Bucky watched the horror happen in slow motion.

“Steve," his dad said steadily in that fake Principal voice that means everything’s  _ completely  _ fucked up, but it’s his job to remain calm and get everybody safely to the exits. “I’m going to steer. Can you gently press the gas and brake when I tell you?”

“Yeah," Steve whimpered. He was sobbing, jesus, he was sobbing.

“Okay, here we go.” His dad slid the gear into reverse and said, “On the count of three, easy does it.”

The Escalade backed away from the wall, and the horrible scrape of metal shrieked down the alley again. Bucky felt every note rip up the nerves in his spine, and his neck popped as it lurched to the left. As soon as his dad told Steve to stop, he threw the truck in park and jumped out, touching Bucky’s shoulder. But he couldn’t move. Blue boots stuck to the hall, black boots glued to the concrete, Duckie shoes frozen to the tiles. He could see Steve now... with his dad out of the way...Bucky could see Steve slumping over against the window and adding a new, diagonal splotch of blood to form an X.

“Hey," his dad whispered, shaking Bucky a little. A long line of blood dripped off the bottom of Steve’s chin, and Bucky bet that it tasted nothing like cherries and coconut sunscreen. “Son, I need you to keep it together and stay calm. His arm’s broken, and we have to move him to the backseat. Can you help me with that?”

Bucky whimpered because someone broke Steve! Someone broke him and Bucky hadn’t been there to stop it!

The crunch of his sister’s shoes slid to a stop beside him, and their dad pointed towards the empty front seat. “Natasha, get in and call the police. Tell them to meet us at The Brooklyn Hospital Center ER.”

Bucky blinked, because suddenly he and his dad were standing next to Steve’s side of the car. Through the smears of blood and molasses he could see that Natasha was already talking on the phone. She looked terrified, and he had no fucking idea how he’d gotten there.

               … _ You were really fucked up. _ ..

Steve’s blond hair was pressed up against the glass, and there was another cut oozing above his ear, coloring the strands of his blond hair red.

“Okay," his dad yelled through the glass. “We’re gonna open the door, Steve.” Turning to Bucky, he said, “Ready?”

He nodded, even though he couldn’t stop staring at Steve’s bloody hair. His dad slowly opened Steve’s door, and the scene went silent. The only thing that Bucky saw was Steve’s limp body falling towards them, and something powerful kicked in. Lurching forward, Bucky caught Steve’s weight, and he didn’t need anyone to tell him what to do anymore.

Steve moaned as Bucky slid his arms around his chest and carefully pulled him out of the driver’s seat, while his dad steered Steve’s feet through the crushed marshmallows and shattered skulls littering the ground. Steve was missing a shoe.  _ He was missing a mother fucking shoe! _ But Bucky had him. He  _ had _ him, and he was never letting go again!

The movement jostled Steve’s arm, and when Bucky looked down to see how bad it was, he wanted to tear the world apart. His left wrist was bending down at a nauseating angle…

_                ...burn, burn, yes ya gonna burn.. _ .

“I’ve got you. C’mon, Stevie, I’ve got you.” Bucky stumbled against the bricks but held firm as his dad yanked open the back door.

“I followed the plan." Steve laughed as Bucky climbed backwards into the car, pulling Steve up with him. He was dead weight, but somehow the pounds felt like nothing at all.

“Steve, you need to help me. Come on, baby.”

“Steve, pull your feet up." His dad grunted as he tried to help twist Steve’s legs into the car. “You’re almost there, son, you can do it.”

Once they got him in, Bucky slid right up next to him and tried to press the tissues that Natasha was handing him underneath Steve’s nose and against the cuts, but there were so many and he was bleeding everywhere! When he smiled, there was blood on his teeth, just like the first fucking night! Why the  _ fuck _ had they let Steve go back there!? What the  _ fuck _ were any of them thinking!?

“Buck, I followed the plan. It worked and they led me here. They’ve been leading me here all along.”

As soon as his dad steered them out of the alley, Steve stared out the window at the passing streetlights, squinting up at nothing and laughing. Bucky knew damn well that Steve was talking about his birds, but how was he supposed to explain something that crazy to his dad? How the hell was Bucky supposed to explain that to himself!? The tissues were soaking through as quickly as Natasha could hand him new ones, and even if Bucky  _ could _ stop all the blood he knew that it wouldn’t be enough.  

“I don’t see them now, Bucky. I made it.”

The truck hit a bump, and Steve whimpered as he fell heavily against Bucky’s side. His chest was rising and falling in quick little breaths as he mumbled, “Sam told me that this would happen; that I was reckless. But it’s okay. It’s part of the plan. Did you know that tonight their eyes were still peppermints?”

Bucky had never felt so fucking helpless in his entire life. He desperately signalled his sister for more tissues because the red was bubbling over his fingertips and dripping down onto Steve’s chest. Their laps were littered with blood soaked wads.

“When he snapped my arm, I could smell it...Christmas morning with you...it broke like a candy cane snapping in two. I smelled the peppermints…”

“We’ll be there soon, Steve. Try not to talk,” his dad commanded, but Bucky could hear the fear in his voice.

“Steve, shhh. I love you, okay? It’s gonna be okay.”

“Can you keep this safe for me?” Steve moved his good hand away from his arm and screamed so loud that Bucky’s dad swerved out of the lane and almost hit a minivan. Steve’s wrist was bent downwards, the angle all wrong, and, in the second it took for Steve to jerk his hand back over the break, Bucky saw it  _ fucking wobble _ !

“Jesus christ, Steve. Oh my fucking god! Stevie! Don’t move!”

“But I need you to keep her safe. She’s in the pocket of this shirt. I hate this shirt.” Steve sounded drunk as he rambled, “I ran back to get her, Bucky, I ran back to my room to get her and that’s when he broke my arm. But I got her anyway, Buck. I followed the smell of cotton candy and I got us out. Can you…”

Bucky was openly crying now. What the actual fuck was going on? Steve kept moving, and his arm kept bending wrong, tears were flowing down Natasha’s cheeks as she unbuckled her seatbelt to turn around to gather up the bloody tissues, and Bucky caught his dad’s worried eyes in the rearview. Bucky carefully slipped his bloody fingers into the pocket of the dress shirt, and his hand was shaking when he slowly pulled out the bent photograph that had been shoved inside.

As soon as Bucky lifted it from the pocket, Steve instantly relaxed and let his eyes slip shut. “Thank you, baby. I’m so glad I can trust you to keep her safe.”

In the glow of the streetlights Bucky felt overwhelmed by the treasure he was holding in his vibrating hand. It was a photograph of little Steve, standing in front of the big Ferris wheel at Coney Island with his mother. Bucky knew it was her; she had the same kind eyes, and her hair was the same golden blond as Steve’s. God, Steve looked so tiny, with one hand firmly wrapped around his mother’s, and the other excitedly holding tightly to a cloud of pink cotton candy. Several drops of blood had found their way onto the edges and had dripped over the top of her hair, which made Bucky cry even harder, because really, God?  _ Fucking really _ !? Thankfully, the main image was still clear, despite the folds, the bent corners, and the blood. There was so much blood...

“She’s beautiful, Steve," was all Bucky could manage.

Steve’s head lolled back, and he cracked his swollen eyes. They were turning purple already. “She would’ve loved you, Bucky. She would’ve loved you so much…”

Suddenly, the big red letters that spelled out ‘Emergency’ cast the photograph in red. Staring at Steve’s distorted profile for a long moment, he realized the importance of the precious picture that he’d been entrusted with, and made a decision…

Even if his fingernails would always be torn and ragged, filled with heavy dirt and the remnants of worms, Bucky vowed then and there to protect Steve, no matter what the cost.

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading guys! Look for Chapter 18 by the end of June. Keep your comments coming. They make me feel all bubbly like Bucky. :)
> 
> The playlist for this Chapter is linked in last Chapters end notes (its combined with Ch 16) on my youtube channel (JessieLucid). 
> 
> Big, huge hugs!!!!
> 
> Find my Stucky Art here:  
> [Instagram](https://www.instagram.com/jessielucidart/)
> 
> [Tumblr](https://lucidnancyboy.tumblr.com)


	18. Home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to give the biggest shout-out to my beta: True story, she spent a half an hour researching how to properly place the commas in one of my overly complicated sentences! Allow me to repeat that for emphasis: 30 minutes on one sentence! Holy crap, please give this wonderful human some love!  
> [Lorien](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lorien/pseuds/Lorien)  
> Please check out her gorgeous Stucky art on Tumblr  
> [drjezdzany](http://drjezdzany.tumblr.com)  
> She works so damn hard to help make this story what it is, and she deserves all the hugs and kudos for her generosity, dedication, and general level of awesomeness.
> 
> The playlist for this chapter is in the endnotes, and you can find it on,  
> [youtube](https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCjADIMzQjvmnAs-nGoSG0JQ)  
> but there is one song that you should definitely play as you read the scene. At the very end, Steve will cue you to listen to the song “To Build a Home” by The Cinematic Orchestra. When I originally conceived this story, this scene and this particular song were the cornerstone of my entire concept. I hope that you love it as much as I do.
> 
> Thank you for reading and look for a new lucidnancyboy/Lorien collaboration for this year’s Stucky Big Bang (release date: August 20th). It’s the sequel to our fic “Red Vines” and we promise lots of laughs this time.
> 
> Enjoy :)

                                 

 

Everything hurt. All of him, inside and out. Not just the broken parts and the openings in his flesh that were letting the red leak out; but the parts deep inside that were screaming ‘alone’ over and over and over. Steve was trying to stay quiet as a young resident with a messy bun carefully slid a simple split beneath his mangled wrist, but the pain was...it was unbearable. His jaw hurt from grinding his teeth together in an effort to hold back the screams, and his back muscles were clenched in one tight spasm. Somewhere underneath the agony was the knowledge that Bucky was next to him on the gurney, but everything hurt so much that it was hard to register anything other than the ribbon of gauze that was being wrapped around and around and around. Steve had the urge to swipe his finger underneath his bleeding nose and to use the red blood to paint the white gauze with spiraling candy cane stripes. He didn’t smell peppermint anymore; just antiseptic, faint hints of piss and puke, and the metallic scent wafting from the life saving machines of the emergency room. 

Trying to make sense of the chaos happening all around him was impossible through the noise: panicked voices echoing along bleached white walls...repetitive beeps indicating strengthening heartbeats...or beeps that skipped and slowed, announcing the faltering rhythm of the electrical impulses that kept the blood in motion... footsteps overlapping from all directions, their pace determining priority... Steve couldn’t breathe through his nose...all he could taste was copper...and he felt so damn dizzy, even though he was sprawled out on a skinny hospital bed and nothing in his designated rectangle was moving. Closing his eyes, Steve tried to focus on one thing; one thing that  _ wasn’t _ pain.

“You’re telling me this is his  _ sister _ ?” 

Blinking at the ceiling, Steve tried to lift his head to see who was yelling...there was always yelling...but a hand pushed his head back down on the flat mattress. A male voice said, “Don’t try to move, sir.” 

He didn’t know who’d said it, and he didn’t care. Steve just wanted to know who was yelling. From the awkward angle he could barely see a woman...a doctor?... standing toe to toe with Bucky’s dad at the foot of the gurney. She was impatiently pointing over Mr. Barnes’ shoulder towards Natasha, who was sitting in a chair against the ugly curtain, her legs crossed and her chin lowered in a defiant stare.

_ Sister? _ Steve had always wondered what it would have been like to have a sister, not that he would wish his life on anyone else, but he’d been so alone and maybe a sister would have loved him like Natasha loved Bucky. He could have taught her how to draw unicorns and puppy dogs, squeezed onto a tiny chair to have a tea party with her family of stuffed bears, made sure that she knew how to throw a punch to protect herself from assholes... god, his wrist hurt so bad. The pain of it was throbbing all the way up his arm and pounding through the muscles connecting to his spine. He couldn’t think straight.

“Yes, his sister.” Mr. Barnes replied without so much as a twitch.

“And that’s his  _ brother _ ?” She pointed at Bucky...thank god for Bucky...who had somehow squished himself onto the bed with Steve after he’d set him down. No conversation, no permission requested, an automatic action following Bucky’s act of heroism. He’d carried Steve until someone in white had pointed out a gurney; holding Steve’s one-hundred-and-eighty-five pounds in his arms like it was nothing. Then, after carefully laying Steve on the bed, he’d crawled up next to him, holding his hand and refusing to let go.

Through the cacophony of harsh noises there was a constant undercurrent of Bucky’s honey smooth voice, whispering soft reassurances in Steve’s ear: ‘everything’s gonna be okay, Stevie’, ‘Don’t worry, I’ve got you’, ‘shhh, baby’, and the most soothing one of all...‘I love you’. Each word sounded like a lullaby in the middle of a battle; soft alto notes singing across the drumroll of automatic weapons, the gentle rocking motion of a mother cuddling her baby in her arms, his song burying the footfalls of soldiers running for their lives as bullets impacted the dirt around their boots. 

Bucky had splotches of blood all over his hands and his striped shirt,  _ Steve’s _ blood, and there was a lot of it; dry and cracking mixed with fresh and moist. Steve could feel Bucky trembling against his side; there was a slight vibration in his bloody fingers when he ran them up and down Steve’s arm, and a subtle quiver in his bottom lip as it rubbed against Steve’s ear...but his voice wasn’t trembling at all. Each syllable sounded like solid rock towering in the middle of a shifting beach; the thing that you run towards when the tide comes in too quickly to make it safely to higher ground.

“Yes, that’s his brother.” Bucky’s dad sounded like a rock too, quipping, “They’re very close.” 

Over his feet, Steve could see the woman running one agitated hand over her curly, brown ponytail while using the other one to raise her table towards her face; like whatever bullshit family information Mr. Barnes had fed the triage team would make everything crystal clear. Family? If Steve’s ribs didn’t hurt so bad, he would have laughed. There was nobody. The blinking cursor waiting for a series of letters to fill in the field for ‘Mother’? Unmoving. The designated spot to type in his father’s name? Empty. But perhaps now there were names that could fill in the space for ‘Emergency Contact’? The feeling of Bucky’s breath against Steve’s ear certainly  _ felt _ like family, and Steve prayed that maybe it could become real; that Bucky would  _ want _ to type his name into that empty space. Steve wanted to kiss him, but every time he tried to move, the disembodied hand stopped him. 

Sighing, the woman snapped, “And who are you again?”

“Their father.” 

What? No...that space was blank. It had  _ always _ been blank. Steve’s father was long dead; a surname that Steve only knew from his mother’s memories, when he’d never known the man who had given it to him. Rogers. Joseph Rogers; an unreadable signature on a birth certificate, a rugged face in a faded picture, a story of young love falling from his mother’s lips, a pair of size eleven work boots discovered in the corner of a Brooklyn closet during a game of hide and seek...Steve had put his small feet into those giant boots, dirt still caked on the bottoms, and had known exactly who Joseph Rogers was...he was a ghost story. 

But Mr. Barnes had just said  _ father _ , and that word...Steve couldn’t believe the way it felt... or that Bucky’s dad had said it at all. He and Bucky had been together for two weeks,  _ thirteen  _ fucking days, and this man was lying so that Steve didn’t have to be alone in this loud place. A father was supposed to protect his family, to growl and raise his hackles whenever danger presented itself, to step up and do whatever it took...and, for the first time, when Bucky’s dad had said that word...Steve understood how it felt to have that unfaltering safety net.

Someone poured something onto his cheek, and while it was freezing cold, it still burned. The heat sunk down into the roots of his teeth, and Steve felt the sizzle in the middle of his brain; the connections of nerves transferring the external impact to specific points deep inside his control center. Steve could muse about mechanics all he wanted, but it didn’t erase the fact that it  _ fucking hurt _ . Bucky kissed Steve’s other cheek, the one that wasn’t on fire, and while it was illogical to think that Bucky’s cupid bow lips could take the pain away, somehow the connection point overpowered the sizzling nerves, and the pressure of his soft kiss helped.

“Father?” She chuckled at that one, her ponytail bouncing happily in sharp contrast to her wretched attitude. Motioning over Mr. Barnes’ shoulder at the three of them, she snipped, “These are  _ all _ your children?”

“No, just two of them.”

She clutched the tablet to her chest and scoffed, “But you said…”

“Listen.” Mr. Barnes pulled back the stiff curtain enough to back her out of the tiny space. Even though he dropped his voice, Steve still heard him say, “He doesn’t have any family, and we  _ aren’t _ leaving him alone. I’m asking you to  _ please _ look the other way on this.”

“It’s against hospital policy for minors to…”

Noise. So much noise. Steve tried to roll into Bucky’s chest and gritted his teeth. The resident was ripping pieces of medical tape to loosely secure the gauze in place on the splint, and even though she was doing it quickly, it sounded like nails on a chalkboard. Every time she added another piece of adhesive it did nothing to put Steve back together inside, only adding more layers of agony to his throbbing arm. Rip, snip, stick, pain, repeat...each step adding to the grating noise. At least his hand would stop flopping around; a broken candy cane trapped inside its plastic wrapper, hanging at the wrong angle off the evergreen tree.

“I’m not moving,” Bucky growled, wrapping a protective arm around Steve’s neck and pulling him closer as he yelled at the woman through the curtain. “You can try to make me move, but I’m not going  _ anywhere!  _ I’d love to see you try!” It was aggressive, definitely against hospital rules, but it felt so good that Steve internally rooted him on. After threatening the hospital staff, Bucky whispered, “Fuck that bitch.” And even though it was a truly horrible thing to say, the worst of the worst, to Steve it sounded as sweet as a strawberry shortcake on a hot summer day.

Bucky shifted his attention to the man with the glasses who was doing something to Steve’s cheek. Ah, the disembodied hand was no longer disembodied. The way that Bucky was glaring up at him, watching his every move through squinted eyes as he cleaned Steve’s cut, had to be scaring the poor guy half to death. Bucky was almost sneering...no, he _was_ sneering...but, in sharp contrast, his thumb was rubbing soothing circles on Steve’s pulse point. Both actions made Steve feel so damn safe. Even though every part of his body hurt, the world was still fuzzy around the edges, and it was so fucking _loud_ , Steve hadn’t felt this safe in years. 

He could remember it plainly. Twelve-year-old Steve, sitting in a warm patch of sun and smiling joyfully out the window; content, happy,  _ safe _ . The final precious seconds of innocence before his entire world had been destroyed. That had been the morning his mother had told him that she had cancer…

 

 

It had been a Saturday, bright and early, in the service kitchen at the bottom of the spiral staircase, and his mom had been helping their chef whip up omelettes, slide trays of bacon into the oven, and slice up an assortment of fresh fruit to drop into a bowl full of color. Steve had been sitting in front of the french doors, staring out at the lush rooftop garden that had filled the courtyard with assorted hues of vibrant green. The summer sun had been shining, making a checkered pattern of light and shadow across Steve’s lap as he’d shaded the picture of the tomato plant he’d just sketched with his brand new set of colored pencils. He’d had to choose the richest red, crimson lake, because the tomatoes were so ripe that they were about to fall off the vine; one stiff breeze would do the trick. Steve had hoped that Chef Thomas would pluck them straight off the plant to make fresh spaghetti sauce for dinner. 

Alexander had already left to play golf in The Hamptons, which had been his normal routine since they’d moved into the penthouse in the spring, so Steve hadn’t suspected anything was amiss as he’d watched his mom laughing and cracking eggs into a big metal bowl. Steve  _ had _ found it odd that Alexander hadn’t liked her to cook, but she’d always tugged on his silk ties, told him that he’d needed to loosen up a little, then had gone right ahead and done it anyways on the weekends. Sometimes, if they’d started their breakfast adventure early enough, his mom had even gotten Alexander to eat an omelette in his office as he’d read the business section of the morning paper...sometimes. Once, Steve remembered, Alexander had smiled when she’d snuck the plate next to his computer and had gently tugged on her hand until she’d bent over far enough that he could kiss her cheek...once.

Omelettes had become their new Manhattan tradition, in a place where so many of their old Brooklyn traditions just hadn’t fit. Saturdays had been the one day of the week where Steve had felt like a little piece of home had followed them over the bridge. Fluffy, farm fresh eggs stuffed with broccoli and melted cheddar cheese, or filled with crumbled sausage and perfectly chopped green peppers, and always an extra three egg omelette with spinach for Chef. Steve’s mom had always insisted that Chef Thomas joined them at the round glass table next to the window to enjoy the fruits of their labor. 

But that Saturday, his mom hadn’t said a word when Chef had taken his spinach omelette and crispy bacon back towards the butler’s lounge. She’d placed white mugs of freshly squeezed orange juice next to their plates and settled in across from Steve with a sweet smile on her face. Distracted by the juice, or the sunshine, Steve had happily eaten everything on his plate; the plump green grapes, juicy chunks of pineapple, and thinly sliced strawberries had been the perfect finishing touch. They’d chatted about Steve’s drawing as her blonde hair glistened in the square patterns of light, and everything had seemed perfectly normal until Steve had noticed that she hadn’t touched her food. 

That moment in time was etched deeply and painfully into Steve’s memory forever. Whenever he tried to think of the word ‘happy’ that’s where the jagged divide had been drawn; his crimson red colored pencil scratching a thick mark through Steve’s timeline... rudimentary handwriting scrawling ‘happy’ on one side, ‘unhappy’ on the other. 

Even at that age, staring at her untouched omelette, Steve had instantly known that something had been terribly wrong. His young, vibrant mother had stopped talking and had been staring through the clear glass panes at the biggest tomato. Following her gaze, he’d noticed a Japanese Beetle crawling along its tender, ripe skin. One bite and the insect could have easily crawled inside, its invasion ruining their spaghetti dinner...and where there was one, Steve had known that there were destined to be more...an infestation. A single tear had run down his mom’s cheek as she’d stared at that fucking bug, and once she’d explained the mechanics of cancer, Steve had understood why.

In that horrible moment, the safety of omelettes and spaghetti sauce had been ruined forever. In that moment, a dozen eggs had crashed to the tiled floor, exploding their yellow yolks all over everything good and pure. In that horrible moment, the tomato had fallen from the vine. 

 

 

“Ow!” Steve yelled, a ripple of pain shooting up his arm as the resident with the bun pressed on a final piece of tape. “Please...it hurts... please stop.”

“I know, I’m so sorry, sweetie. But that will help until the orthopedic surgeon can come take a look at it, I promise. I’m done for now and Erik is almost finished cleaning up the cuts. The attending physician, Dr. Mason, should be here at any second to do his full assessment. Just try to breathe.”

When she stood up and backed away from the bed, Steve noticed that she had freckles, but they did nothing to hide the guilt written all over her face. What was it like to work in a field where you spent the long hours of your day hurting people in order to help them? Did she crawl into her bed at the end of every shift, setting her hair free and laying her head on the pillow, only to hear the screams of her patients echoing in her dreams? Or, did she revel in the thanks and appreciation that she’d eventually receive in the end?

The man, she’d called him Erik, dabbed something wet under Steve’s nose and he couldn’t stop himself from moaning. It hurt.  _ Everything _ hurt. Unbelievably, Alexander had never broken a bone before; but this time he’d broken everything...and all because Steve had kissed a beautiful boy as the waves had danced around their ankles on the Coney Island shore. Finding Bucky’s hand and gripping it tightly, Steve mumbled, “You make me feel so safe.”

A puff of breath escaped from Bucky’s lips when he scoffed, “Imagine how safe you’d feel if I’d  _ actually _ protected you.”

Steve didn’t know what to say to that. How could Bucky have protected him? He hadn’t been there... he  _ couldn’t _ have been...and it had been Steve’s decision. God, he couldn’t even begin to deal with his failure to find the right words...or focus through the agony in his wrist... so he squeezed Bucky’s fingers and tried to listen to Mr. Barnes instead. Bucky’s dad was still toe to toe with the doctor...she  _ had _ to be a doctor...except now his arms were crossed, his glasses were riding low on his nose, and he looked like a total badass. 

For some reason, Steve had always thought that Mr. Barnes was short, but even from this angle he could see that he was towering over her. It was an amazing transformation; real or perceived...Steve didn’t know. She was violently shaking her head and pointing at her tablet, pointing at her apple watch, pointing at Bucky, and pointing at Natasha, who was paying absolutely no attention to her. Glancing across Bucky’s chest to where Natasha was sitting next to the monitors, Steve was surprised to see that her jaw was set, a tiny dimple exposed by her sinister smile, and that she  _ also _ looked decidedly badass. Then there was Bucky. He was flat out staring at the doctor like a mama bear protecting its cub, and Steve had to admit that he liked feeling like a baby bear for once. As he reveled in Bucky’s aggression, Steve realized that all three of them were like vicious mama bears...an entire family of grizzly bear badasses...and they were  _ all _ standing up on their hind legs, swiping their clawed paws in the air, and growling for  _ Steve _ . 

Suddenly, Erik accidentally bumped his ribs, and Steve screamed. He couldn’t help it. He’d been holding everything inside for so damn long, and, finally, the shifting bones inside his torso had torn a hole big enough to let all of it escape. The screaming was racing past Steve’s vocal cords and out of his open mouth, but the sound was whistling outward through every gaping cut, splattering red onto everything around him, exploding out through every bruised, mushy area of skin and muscle, and resonating in between the snapped bones in his wrist. The scream was loud enough to shatter every illusion that Steve had ever created...the truth finally revealed through his peppermint eyes.

Bucky, his champion, his protector, growled with his biggest grizzly roar, “Jesus, be careful with him!”

“ _ Please. _ ” Mr. Barnes yelled. “We  _ won’t _ leave him alone like this, and, for god’s sake, can you  _ please _ get him something for the pain!?”

The pain. What could they give Steve to make it all go away? Morphine? Would that blast away the brutality of the baseball bat hitting him over and over? Dilaudid? Could that whisk Steve away to a place where magical typewriters could write him a new story, one to sit on the shelf next to Burroughs’ “Naked Lunch”? Extra Strength Tylenol? Would the nurse hand him an over the counter Band-Aid in a little white cup, knowing damn well that the white pills wouldn’t do shit? 

Bucky whispered, “Shhh, Stevie, I love you. Okay? Baby, just imagine that I’m putting pretty pink marshmallow hearts on your tongue, and they’re melting and magically taking the pain away.” Those words were more powerful than anything a doctor in a white coat could inject through an IV.

Another doctor, this one with kind eyes and a dark, neatly trimmed beard walked up behind the mean woman and raised his eyebrows. Probably a typical reaction when finding yourself face to face with three pissed off grizzly bears in the middle of a busy ER. “Um, we need you on the intake in bed two, Dr. Ritchie.” Assessing the situation for danger, he chuckled. “This one looks like a losing battle to me.”

“Fine,” she sighed, something like defeat mixed with a healthy dose of annoyance. “They’re your problem now.” Steve _really_ didn’t like her, and it wasn’t the pain talking. Backing up from Bucky’s dad, she snapped, “This is Dr. Mason, your attending doctor, and he’s the one who will put in the order for pain meds after his assessment. But, in the meantime, if you’re going to try to convince the staff that your _son_ is his _brother_ , you should tell him to stop kissing the patient.” Pushing past Dr. Mason, she stormed off, hopefully never to be seen again.

Dr. Mason, who Steve was going to call Dr. Savior, patted Mr. Barnes on his furry back and said, “Sorry about that. Dr. Ritchie likes rules. She’s pretty OCD about them, actually. Now let’s see if I can speed things up for you.”

“Thank fucking god!” Bucky exclaimed way too loudly. “Your Jesus beard has imbued you with kindness, and _jesus_ _fucking christ_ do we need a little kindness right now. Thank you!”

That right there was exactly why Steve loved Bucky so much. They both recognized the Lord and Savior when they saw him; even when he was disguised in a white coat and a stethoscope.

“I was going more for Tom Hardy than Jesus, but thank you all the same.” Dr. Savior nodded and gently touched Steve’s wrist, the kindness in his eyes delivering instant relief. 

Bucky pressed his fingers against Steve’s stomach, each tiny touch healing him cell by cell, and Steve reconsidered his aversion to prayer.  

*****

 

 

Bucky _had_ to get out of the bed when the cops finally showed up, because the men in blue had more authority than the bitch in white. Bucky didn’t like calling women bitches; it was rude and very 1992 Snoop Dogg, and he did not in any way, shape, or form think that “Bitches Ain’t Shit” (like seriously, Dr. Dre), but jesus fucking christ that woman had been a mother fucking _bitch_! If she’d been a guy, Bucky would have also assigned _him_ the title of ‘raging bitch’, because bullshit like that doesn’t have a gender! 

Anyway, as Bucky put his boots back on, he took note of the super sweet moustache on one of the police dudes. The song was already there, loud as can be in his brain, and Bucky barely stopped himself from singing the ‘YMCA’ at the top of his lungs. It would have been so epic to aim his letters right at Officer Moustache, but he restrained himself. Restraint was his middle name...actually, it was Buchanan...but that had nothing to do with anything. Bucky slid behind Officer Moustache to scrub the blood off his hands in the tiny sink...and scrub...and scrub...Steve had done the ‘YMCA’ with Bucky in the stupid fucking spaceship last week, badly, but the effort had been there….and scrub... It probably wouldn’t go very well if they went for the encore, with Steve’s arm being snapped in half and all...and scrub...and scrub... the very idea of Steve’s wrist flopping around when he tried to form the letter Y made Bucky’s stomach turn. Great, now Pierce had ruined the mother fucking ‘YMCA’, and Bucky  _ still _ couldn’t get all this blood off of his fucking hands!

Their dad handed Natasha twenty bucks and told her to find food; which was code for ‘take Bucky and stay the fuck out of the emergency room’. Bucky wasn’t stupid (unless he was pretending to be for his own benefit), he knew that his dad was kicking them out so he could stay with Steve and give an official statement to Tom Selleck and his less hairy partner, Officer Tyrese Gibson (seriously, cop number two was  _ hot _ ). Bucky could totally picture him racing around with sweaty Vin Diesel in some badass muscle car; probably a 1970 Chevelle SS with a...

Natasha grabbed his arm, interrupting Bucky’s epic, sexy police man in a car chase fantasy, and pulled him through the busy ER. Bucky caught sight of the bitch, looking bitchy as fuck at the nurse’s station, and he maybe flipped her off (he totally flipped her off). His arm got an even bigger yank for that little stunt, but whatever...he and Snoop didn’t give a flying fuck.

As much as Bucky didn’t want to leave Steve, he had to admit that when Officer Selleck and Officer Sexy took the official photographs to document Steve’s injuries, it probably wouldn’t be the best idea to have Bucky snuggled up next to him, petting his hair and kissing his cheek. 

 

_ Lawyer for the plaintiff _ _ : Allow me to present Exhibit A; seventy stitches across the plaintiff’s cheek. They had to call in the head of plastic surgery to handle the wound personally, so that the scar wouldn’t be permanently disfiguring. _

_ Judge: _ _ Why is there a kid with crazy hair kissing the plaintiff’s temple in the corner of this picture? _

_ Lawyer: _ _ It’s not relevant, your Honor. Please instruct the jury to disregard the soft kiss captured in Exhibit A. _

_ Lawyer for the defense: _ _ Objection, your Honor. You can’t ask the jury to ignore the sappy boy in the corner!  _

_ Judge: _ _ Sustained. If I can’t unsee it, we can’t expect the jury to either.  _

_ Lawyer: _ _ Fine, then allow me to enter Exhibit B into evidence; the radius in the plaintiff’s wrist was broken from… _

_ Judge: _ _ Why is that kid photobombing this picture!? _

_ Lawyer: _ _ Again, it’s not relevant to the case… _

_ Judge: _ _ He’s making duck lips and putting bunny ears above the broken limb. _

_ Lawyer: _ _ The plaintiff’s idiotic boyfriend, and his duck lips, have no bearing on the relevance of... _

_ Judge: _ _ I can’t accept any of this. That kid’s goofy face has contaminated all of your evidence.  _ _ Case dismissed. _

_ *the gavel smashes on the bench, and Alexander Pierce walks out of the courthouse a free man. _

 

So yeah, Bucky’s ass had gotten kicked out of the ER, and Natasha had been bribed with a wrinkled Andrew Jackson to buy him a stale danish or a soggy turkey sandwich from a vending machine. He’d probably end up with food poisoning, which would be the key to getting Bucky  _ back _ in the ER.

Natasha pushed the little blue square on the wall so the double doors, that would take Bucky further away from Steve, would open. As Bucky stomped past, she asked, “How are you holding up?”

“That’s a stupid question.”

“You don’t have to be a dick to me, Bucky. I’m just trying to help.”

“I’m not being a dick. I just think that you shouldn’t waste your precious time asking questions that you already know the answer to. I’m  _ not _ holding up, whatever the hell that means.” He tried to slam through another set of doors, but since they had those automatic opener things that made them move super slow, it was very anticlimactic. Bucky stood there cursing their sloth-like speed, cursing sloths in general, and...

“Excuse me!” A short orderly with dark hair shoved past Bucky with a handful of something, hitting his shoulder and knocking him off balance. Bucky’s heart jumped into his throat as the man careened down the hallway, because right before he slid around the corner, he turned back... and Bucky saw Brock’s smirking face. 

“Bucky…?”

_    ...is it time for our playdate?... _

“Bucky!”

Black boots cemented in the middle of a doorway, the automatic sensor bashing the heavy, wooden door against the wall over and over. Natasha staring at him like he’d been standing there for hours...maybe he had?

“Bucky.” Natasha touched his arm, whispering, “Hey, are you okay?”

“I’m fine. Can we please just locate the overpriced fruit cups so I can get back to Steve? I’m absolutely positive that they’re only gonna have the shitty ones with the gross, green apple chunks that have already turned brown, teeny tiny red grapes, and disgusting, mushy honeydew. Like, would it fucking kill them to spring for a strawberry once in awhile? God forbid that a fucking  _ hospital _ offers their weak and feeble patients a goddamn piece of fresh fucking watermelon!”

Shoving ahead of her, Bucky followed the signs for the cafeteria; and if he moved all the way to the left to avoid the hallway that Brock had run down, he’d never admit it. Of course, Bucky knew that he was batshit crazy like Steve (quite the pair in their matching straight jackets) and that Brock wasn’t  _ actually _ running test results down hospital corridors, but the feeling of his hand grabbing Bucky’s belt buckle was... 

Fuck. He needed to get his fucking shit together, like  _ now _ , because Steve was a disaster; a top notch example of a little shit flailing around in the deep end. Steve might look like a fucking Greek Adonis on the outside, but, tonight, Bucky couldn’t stop thinking about him like he’d looked in that picture;  _ tiny _ with a handful of pink cotton candy, stupidly about to ride the biggest rollercoaster where his stupid little body was gonna fall out of the harness... because Pierce had strapped him in and had done a shit job...and now Bucky had to hold Steve in while they flipped upside-down through the scary corkscrew part, and...what the fuck was his point? He dragged his fingernails over the Braille bumps on another sign and tried to remember…

Oh yeah, Steve was a disaster, and Bucky was  _ also _ a disaster. Huh, that could be a problem. Practically speaking, Steve was way ahead in the disaster race right now, so Bucky needed to get his shit together ASAP. That’s what boyfriends are supposed to do, right? Shut their mouths and follow the person that they love right into the trenches? That’s what always happened in the movies anyway. Bucky was new to this love thing; he only had Clint and Bruce Willis in ‘Armageddon’ to go on...that dramatic part when Bruce had slammed the spaceship door on Ben Affleck so Holden McNeil could go back and make out with Arwen...but,  _ anyway _ , it felt like the right thing for Bucky to do, even though he’d much rather be Ben in this scenario, and Steve could be Liv Tyler...and it was fuck-o’clock in the morning...and Bucky had no fucking idea what he was even thinking about! He wondered if the stupid hospital vending machines would have little boxes of animal crackers that Natasha could buy with her twenty, and if the tigers and giraffes would have the same heart-warming effect bouncing over Steve’s broken ribs?

Glancing over his shoulder, his sister was trailing a few feet behind him looking completely dazed and confused. He hadn’t noticed before, but she was wearing an oversized ‘Pierce the Veil’ shirt with a big skull and purple flowers in the middle. Bucky knew that shirt. It was Clint’s. His bestie had bought it when they’d played at Irving Plaza in June, after Bucky had gotten them past security by flirting with the chick selling the tickets at the box-office. The second that Bucky had tapped his fingers on her wrist through the little hole and winked, she’d handed him some twenty-one-plus wristbands, lickety split. Clint had fallen over in the dirty bathroom when he’d drunkenly tried to put the shirt on over his mohawk, and Bucky’d laughed so hard that he’d almost thrown up every bit of illegally obtained alcohol. 

“Did you know that five minutes after Clint bought that shirt, he landed on his ass in a pile of cigarettes and piss?” Bucky ground his nails hard enough along the wall to leave scratches. Yeah, he was Wolverine. 

“I’m sure he washed it.”

“Yeah, he wouldn’t put anything  _ dirty _ on my sister.”

“You know what, Bucky, you’re being a  _ complete _ asshole and you need to get yourself under control! I’m way too tired to deal with your thinly veiled possessiveness.”

Bucky snorted. “Wow, your senses  _ pierced my veil  _ already?”

“Are you fucking kidding me right now!?” She stopped dead in her tracks, and Bucky could smell piss and cigarettes filling up the space around him and feel the sweaty compression of the mosh pit enveloping his body like a welcome riptide. 

_               ...burn, burn, yes ya gonna burn... _

There was no reason to answer her, so he kept right on walking, wishing that his arms were long enough to scratch the fuck out of both sides of the hallway. He spread them out to try, but no dice. He was no longer Wolverine. 

He and Natasha had both been awake since the dawn of the Stone Age. She was tired! He was tired! Hugh Jackman was even tired! What the hell had happened to Bucky’s brilliant plan to tuck Steve into his warm, star covered bed like a cozy panda!? Bucky was  _ supposed _ to be slicing up some fresh fucking strawberries and some fresh fucking watermelon with his Wolverine claws (yeah, he was back to being Wolverine) and feeding it to Steve’s furry, black and white face! They were  _ both _ supposed to be tucked safely into Bucky’s bed, snuggling together like cozy pandas...because it was a  _ goddamn school night _ ! 

“How long is this fucking hallway?” Bucky hissed. Then he hissed again at an  _ ugly _ painting of  _ ugly _ children holding hands in the middle of an  _ ugly _ rose  garden. 

“I’m sure we’re almost there.”

“I swear to god,  _ at least _ ninety-five people have died trying to make it to the goddamn salad bar!” 

Natasha didn’t respond because she knew he was right, or because she was sick of him. Probably the latter.

Even though he’d been stripped of his Wolverine title (wait, he’d given it back to himself), Bucky still dragged his fingertips along the blue/green wall; the color no doubt chosen for its ability to calm people as they rolled down the hall towards certain death. He bumped his claws across the fronts of the hideous, nondescript ‘artwork’ that the hospital had probably picked up at an auction in Queens. Every single painting was stupid: an African-American man sitting on a park bench feeding ducks stale bread (Bucky couldn’t tell it was stale,  _ obviously _ , but he assumed), an Asian woman pushing a grumpy baby in a stroller next to an ivy covered fence (the baby was smiling, but Bucky  _ assumed  _ that inside he was grumpy as fuck), a Latino dog jumping high into the air to catch a Russian frisbee (Bucky had no way to tell if the dog spoke Espanyo-roller-derby-o, or if the frisbee liked authentic vodka, but they had a multicultural theme going so Bucky  _ fucking assumed! _ ). Finally, after walking for ten miles, his adamantium claws landed on the metal slats of a gate. 

The bullshit of the entire night instantly amplified by a million, because Bucky was staring at the glorious, green letters of Starbucks...and they were fucking dark!  _ Dark! _ No power! Off! The espresso machine was unplugged! There was no fresh coffee percolating in the percolators, or whatever the fuck the coffee was brewed in! The complimentary pitchers of creamer were out of sight, but not out of Bucky’s mind! And there were  _ zero _ cute baristas blending up delicious, frozen, thousand calorie drinks! There was no  _ assumption _ needed, the universe hated him! Instead of rewarding Bucky with orgasmic coffee, the demonic hospital expected him to make due with pathetic couch paintings of Australian men fishing for Brazilian fish! Bucky laughed at the sign, maybe at the world, because he was seventeen years old and just wanted a Frappuccino!

He still didn’t have a clue what the fuck was going on, or why Steve kept mumbling something about ‘following the plan’ and telling Bucky to ‘call Tony’ over and over. When the orthopedic doctor had finally shown up to reduce Steve’s arm, Bucky had almost puked, but he hadn’t told Steve that. No, sir. He’d held Steve’s non-crooked hand, plastered an encouraging smile on his face, forced the regurgitated pizza rolls from dinner back down his throat, and had said, “You’ve got this, tough guy,” even though Bucky didn’t have it at all. 

Bucky kicked the locked gate with his boot and the sound echoed through the wide open space of the atrium. He didn’t look at Natasha, focusing on the half-empty container of cinnamon when he snapped, “It’s shitty that they aren’t open twenty-four hours! Don’t the suits at Starbucks Headquarters know that horrific things happen to good people at all hours of the day  _ and  _ night? And that those good people  _ need _ Frappucinos to deal with it!?” Looping his hands through the bars, Bucky shook the whole thing as hard as he could and shouted, “I just want a mother fucking Frappuccino!”

“Bucky…” Natasha valiantly put her hand on his shoulder and tried to pull him away from the gate, but there was no way in hell that he was letting go! Fuck that. Fuck no. He shook it again. Fuck you. Fuck the world...

A wrinkled old lady rolled behind him...well, not the old lady herself, that would be creepy...she was being pushed in a wheelchair by a  _ slightly _ less wrinkled old dude at the slowest speed possible. Gawking. That was the word for it. They were  _ gawking _ at Bucky like he was a horribly twisted car accident blocking the right lane of the freeway, and this old fucker had the nerve to bring rush hour traffic to a standstill with his rubber necked  _ gawking _ ! Gawking, gawking, gawking. Was he a  _ gawking _ candy striper? Was that what they were called? Bucky didn’t even think they had those anymore! But if they did, they should have to wear the red and white striped shirts to clearly identify their candy striper status!

Old, slow motion dude had a nametag that said ‘Hi, my name is Joe’ stuck to his old man dress shirt, which told Bucky absolutely nothing except that his name was Joe! He could be ‘office worker Joe’, ‘cat sitter Joe’, or ‘ _ serial killer _ Joe’, and Bucky and the wrinkled old lady in the wheelchair wouldn’t have a fucking clue who they were dealing with! ‘Lying Joe’ and his latest kidnapping victim were both still staring at Bucky (also in slow motion) like he’d moved up from the car accident and graduated to a pile of stinky trash that had crawled out of the garbage chute at the insane asylum. Now, as much as Bucky hated to admit it, maybe they had a point on that one: you spot a kid with wild hair, ripped jeans, clunky boots, and a blood stained shirt, violently shaking the Starbucks gate in the middle of the night ...and, well, that  _ could _ be considered  _ slightly _ insane. But Bucky wasn’t a car crash to  _ gawk _ at... and he’d taken a shower after practice this morning, with Steve’s Bath and Body Works body wash, so he knew he smelled just fine...plus, he wasn’t in the mood...

“What!?” Bucky screamed. “I just want a mother fucking Frappuccino!” The gate got one more good shake, and the old folks got one more good sneer, before Bucky hit them with some full throttle crazy. “You got a problem with that, ‘ _ Hi, my name is Joe _ ’!?”

He was yelling at the olds, but he was also yelling at the gate, and at Alexander Pierce, and at the menu board, with it’s hand drawn chalk pictures of Iced Chai Lattes and Strawberry Acai Refreshers that were taunting him with their unattainable deliciousness, and at himself for letting Brock Rumlow touch him  _ again _ , and at Steve for letting Pierce do this to him! 

Because that was it really, wasn’t it? For some reason Steve had let this happen, and Bucky didn’t fucking understand why! It would take one punch for Steve to lay that prick out on the ground. One! Pierce might be in good shape for a fifty-something-year old, but Steve was a goddamn powerhouse, and he willingly subjected himself to the abuse! Why!? For the fucking  _ money _ !? Why the fuck couldn’t Bucky just get some mother fucking whip cream at fuck o’clock in the mother fucking morning!? Why the fuck was his boyfriend getting the slices, bruises, breaks, and blood covering his body photographed by the police, instead of Bucky’s simple plan to capture Steve’s soft expressions with his loving lens? Why couldn’t Bucky just teleport them back to the wonderful morning when Steve had handed him a Starbucks cup with ‘my baby’s extra creamy whip’ written on the side!?

“Bucky, stop it,” Natasha clipped, her endless patience defying it’s definition and coming to an end. “Come on…”

What if Steve’s wrist was fucked up permanently!?  _ Then _ what the fuck would he do? What the fuck were they gonna do, even if it  _ wasn’t _ !? Bucky pulled back his fist and smashed it as hard as he could into the metal slats, screaming, “Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!  _ Fuck! _ ” 

Flipping around, Bucky slammed his back against the gate then crumbled to the ground. Natasha actually took a few steps backwards, like Bucky was a werewolf during the height of the full moon, and she needed to get the fuck out of the woods! See, he  _ was _ fucking Wolverine! Wait...Wolverine wasn’t a werewolf. What. Fucking. Ever. The point was, Bucky had crossed over to a place where he was in the business of scaring old people  _ and _ his sister. What was next? Frightening innocent children with his quickly expanding sideburns, their psyches forever damaged by Bucky’s impression of Scott McCall? Scaring the fuck out of napping calico kittens with his glowing red eyes, making the poor things hurl themselves backwards out of their little kitten beds so they landed on their backs, flailing their little kitten paws in the air? Steve would definitely break up with Bucky if he was a total dick to cute, fuzzy kittens, but Steve  _ might _ still like him if he turned into a werewolf once in awhile (he was kinky like that). 

Bucky threw his arms over his knees and, wow, his knuckles were really bleeding. He’d just spent five minutes in the ER washing Steve’s blood off his hands, and now he was redecorating with a fresh paint job of his very own. Real talk: Bucky didn’t give a shit, and anyway, it added to his werewolf mystique. 

A police officer appeared out of nowhere. Fucking ‘Hi, my name is Joe’ must have ratted Bucky out! What an old, wrinkly Narc! Implementing his authoritative cop voice, the man in blue said, “Sir, can I help you?”

“Can you make me a Pumpkin Cheesecake Frappuccino with extra whip?” Bucky sniffed and gave ‘short, pudgy cop who liked donuts’ the look that he usually reserved for the cute barista at the Starbucks by Eaton. Bucky’s barista boyfriend always wore a fun little newsboy hat and his name was Todd, which was a stupid name, but since he always slipped Bucky a free seasonal cookie he got a pass on the lame moniker. Natasha squeezed her hand over her face ‘Alien’ style, which was her mature version of a facepalm.

“No, sir. That’s not my job.”

“Then nope, I don’t need your services, officer.” Bucky retracted his Todd smile (because Officer Donut was useless) and gave him one of the smartass variety. “I’m all good. Right as rain. Happy as a clam. Chip-cheerio. Don’t worry be happy. Awesomesauce…”

He pulled out his radio like he was gonna call for backup, and Bucky cracked up. Probably not the wisest move to laugh in the face of the law, but apparently Bucky was so cuckoo’s nest crazy that he required a whole squadron of New York’s finest to swoop in and contain his Frappuccino rage! Maybe they’d have to bust out a taser when Bucky refused to let go of the gate; the metal amplifying the electricity and making his hair stand up on end? Then, after they’d thrown Bucky kicking and screaming into the big house, stripping him of his super cool nautical striped shirt to dress him in a less cool black and white prison outfit, his new cellmate...the six-foot-five-inch biker with the big pot belly... would ask the traditional prison question; ‘What ya in for, man?’ Bucky would cross his arms and puff up his chest muscles, so he’d look super tough, answering, ‘Well, Mr. Biker Guy, I completely lost my shit when I couldn’t get a Peppermint Mocha Frappuccino with extra whip after my boyfriend got beaten half to death. Also, I’m in a committed relationship, so if you could keep your dick out of my ass when I drop the soap, I’d really appreciate it.’ They’d make toilet bowl hooch together and control the drug trade from the inside.

Natasha turned her back on Bucky, standing in front of him and trying her very best to prevent the SWAT team from snatching him up and throwing him into the pokey with Dan (that’s what he was gonna call the biker). Biker Dan. 

Bucky snorted.

Backing up until her heels hit Bucky’s toes (like that would fucking help), Natasha started a tense round of rational negotiation. “Officer, I’m  _ very _ sorry. My brother’s girlfriend is seriously injured in the emergency room, and he’s just really upset.”

Oh, that wasn’t gonna fly. Nope. Nyet. Nein! He was gonna fix that situation real damn quick. Talking through the tiny gap between her legs, Bucky made some critical changes to her official police statement. “Yeah, Officer. I couldn’t fix  _ him _ up with Band-Aids on  _ his _ forehead, frozen peas on  _ his _ ribs, and a killer  _ blow job _ on  _ his _ dick this time.”

“I thought you said  _ girlfriend _ .”

Bucky leaned around Natasha’s knees, stage whispering, “She thought you might arrest me for my dirty homosexuality, so she lied. My sister is a liar, liar pants on fire. My _ boyfriend’s _ name is Steve, and  _ he’s _ super hot.” 

Natasha launched her foot backwards, kicking Bucky’s knee with her itty bitty little shoe. It hurt! “Plus, my brother’s hypoglycemic,” she lied some more, right through her pretty little lying teeth. Bucky was kinda impressed. “I was just about to get him a snack. I promise, he’ll be fine as soon as I get him some orange juice.”

The cop looked at her skeptically, so Bucky decided to provide back up. “I get hangry, Officer. You wouldn’t happen to have a Snickers bar strapped on that utility belt next to your  _ big gun _ , would you?”

_               Brock with a gun. _

“I’m gonna get him a cookie too,” Natasha sighed. “A really, really big chocolate chip cookie.”

“No more yelling,” Officer Donut ordered, using his radio antenna to point at Bucky’s face. He was the perfect example of glazed donut authority. 

Bucky wondered if short, pudgy Officer Donut fucked his wife in his sexy cop uniform on special occasions? Wait...pause and roll that back...Bucky was gonna imagine Officer Tyrese Gibson throughout this internal scenario instead... _ much _ better visual. Did Officer Sexy climb out his black 1973 Dodge Challenger, sauntering into his modest house in the suburbs to set his badge and gun on the coffee table with a cocky swagger? Was he the type to strut into the bedroom after a long day wrangling meth heads and breaking up domestic disputes, unbuttoning his cop shirt into deep seventies V to put his chest hair on full display for his lover? If Bucky was a member of the NYPD, he’d  _ totally _ hold Steve down and fuck him wearing that uniform. Wait...what?

“No more yelling,” Natasha replied, using the most contrite voice that Bucky had ever heard come out of her mouth. She was a good actress; the best of all of them. But she’d interrupted his fantasy, which was completely unacceptable. There was no denying that Bucky’s hair would look ‘1987 Welcome to the Jungle Axl Rose’ amazing sticking out from underneath that sexy cop hat, and it was so damn inspiring just  _ thinking _ about Steve letting Bucky pin him down and…

“Young man! I said, do you understand?” 

He understood that he wanted to kneel over Steve’s naked body and do Axl’s snake hips move while his dick was deep inside of him. Bucky licked his bottom lip and drawled, “I like your hat.”

“I’m going right now!” Natasha took steps towards the actual cafeteria, shaking the twenty dollar bill to lure Officer Donut away from the asshole giving him the sex stare.

The cop looked like he didn’t believe a word she was saying (he was smart), and he  _ definitely _ didn’t thank Bucky for the thoughtful compliment on his hat. Rude. Aiming his radio pointer at Natasha, he ordered, “Feed him, now,” like Bucky was a wild dog or something. If he had the power to rip the gate out of the ceiling to get some mother fucking Cool Whip, Ready Whip, or even a spoonful of Grandma’s homemade whipped cream (because only Grandma’s said ‘whipped’, duh), he’d slather it all over his lips like a rabid dog and growl at Officer Donut as he stomped away in search of his next custard filled long john.

Natasha spun around and kicked him again. “You  _ stupid _ ,  _ reckless _ idiot! I swear to god, Bucky. If it wasn’t for Steve, I’d kick your ass right now! Right here! Right now! What the hell is  _ wrong _ with you!?”

“I told you, I’m fine!”

Shaking her head, she walked backwards, taking Clint’s piss and cigarette t-shirt with her. “Don’t you dare move. Not an inch! I’ll be right back.” 

Then she left him, trotting across the atrium and disappearing into the actual cafeteria. She left him alone on the floor, surrounded by white tiles, generic blue/green walls, and a jungle of fake plants hanging from metal support beams high above his head. She left him in the middle of a joyless parade full of sad people and slow motion wheelchairs. She left him right where he belonged.

Bucky‘d always heard stories about the surge of adrenaline wearing off after an emergency; taking people from Superhero to their own spectacular crash in a matter of seconds. That’s what always happened on medical dramas anyway; cute and sassy Dr. Meredith Grey could tell you all about that medical phenomenon. The skinny guy in the flannel shirt lifts a crumpled Dodge Ram off of a trapped child, suddenly blessed with superhuman strength, then, as soon as the kid is safely pulled from the wreckage, he keels over dead from internal injuries. Bucky stared at his bloody knuckles and figured that his time was almost up.

The truth was, Bucky couldn’t remember how they’d gotten from Steve’s stupid truck to the hospital bed in the ER. The last thing that he remembered, before that doctor bitch had started her bitch-fest, was holding the picture of Steve with his mom in the red light of the emergency sign. Bucky could clearly see a drop of blood spreading across the faded Ferris wheel, and a hazy snippet of his thumb trying to wipe it off. There was a sense of panic that Bucky had lifted the image underneath, tarnishing it forever and taking a piece of the memory away... but he wasn’t sure if any of that had really happened. He remembered his dad taking it out of his hand, and vaguely recalled the sound of the glovebox snapping shut ...then Bucky was curled up next to Steve on the gurney...there was absolutely nothing in between.

While he waited for Natasha to come back with a moldy bagel, or a box of Raisin Bran with a container of slightly expired milk, he picked at the hole in the knee of his pants, pulling on the threads and making it bigger. Not even twelve fucking hours ago, Steve had pulled on the same exact threads with the hand that was now snapped at the wrist! Growling, Bucky ripped them all the way down his shin, right past the Deadmau5 patch, around Twenty One Pilots, and all the way down to Bassnectar. This was his fault, no matter what anyone said. He’d let Steve go back to that awful place while Bucky had skipped home, happy as can be, jerked off thinking about Steve’s dick and had eaten an entire bag of Pizza Rolls! He’d let Steve walk directly into Brock’s path while the bastard had a loaded gun pointed right at his chest! Bucky hadn’t protected him and Brock had tried to kill him...no, what the fuck?... _ Pierce _ had tried to kill him...and he’d done nothing to stop it! Bucky had  _ known _ that Steve was gonna do something stupid! He’d fucking known!

Bucky tried shaking his head to clear it, but only managed to hit his skull against the gate which didn’t make Brock go away. He was sitting on the bench across the atrium, leaning back with one leg bent over his knee, and  _ leering _ . But the worst part, the part that made Bucky feel like he was falling backwards, was that Brock was holding a Starbucks cup with ‘my baby’s whip’ written on the side. Bucky hit his head again, harder, but it did nothing to stop the crash. 

_  …Hey, cupcake. Miss me?... _

There wasn’t a hole in his other knee, but Bucky started picking at the denim with his fingernails to make one. 

_...Want me to fill up this cup with something else? I bet you’d like to taste it... _

Suddenly, a yogurt parfait was shoved in front of his face; creamy vanilla yogurt layered with fat blueberries that were smushed up against the plastic. Bucky’s eyes crossed as he focused on the blue spheres popping out of the white cream. They were staring back at him like alien eyeballs drowning in some thick, white ocean on Neptune. A tiny little plastic packet of granola was neatly packaged on top...at least it  _ looked _ like innocent granola...you could never tell for sure. He didn’t grab the alien parfait, even though Natasha shook it right in front of his nose. What could the little blue eyes see from their plastic prison? Did Bucky look like a giant, distorted monster to them? Natasha shook the cup again and none of the blue spies moved; they were just staring, staring, staring at him. Did Steve like granola? Bucky didn’t know. It was such a stupid, simple thing, and Bucky didn’t fucking know! He started to cry, right in front of his audience of blueberries. 

Natasha didn’t say a word as she knelt down and pulled Bucky into her arms, sighing as she ran her fingers through the tangled strands of his fucked up hair. Bucky didn’t say a word either. She let him have a good cry, good enough that Bucky got snot and tears all over Clint’s shirt, before she sat down and cracked open the yogurt. The blueberries disappeared as she stirred it up with the plastic spork, their vision obscured by the creamy white goop, but Bucky knew they were still in there... _ hiding _ . Natasha might as well have made airplane noises as she fed him tiny bites like he was a toddler, baby Bucky spilling shit all over his baby Bucky bib, but he opened his mouth and let her. After everything he’d been through, it felt pretty okay to gobble up hospital yogurt parfait with a weird hybrid spork, because the reality of the situation was: shit was about to get  _ real _ . As soon as Bucky got his ass up off the floor, he was gonna have to hold onto Steve tight enough to keep him from falling out of the mother fucking roller coaster! As soon as Bucky swallowed the last bite, he’d have to swallow down the rest of it too.  

_...don’t worry, cupcake. I’m not going anywhere... _

Bucky closed his eyes and chewed harder, his eyelids blocking the sight of Brock’s crooked grin that appeared on every single man with dark hair that walked past. Letting the tiny eyeballs roll around on his tongue, he sucked off all the yogurt before popping them between his teeth. Maybe if he chewed them up into small enough pieces, nobody would notice that Bucky had blueberry eyes hiding in his stomach, watching for Brock around every corner…

His brain started tingling from the sugar, a subtle buzz that made things seem a little bit softer, a little bit calmer, and, when he opened his eyes after a few big bites, the bench was completely empty. Maybe Natasha had been right after all; he’d just needed someone to feed him a delicious yogurt parfait to pump him back up. 

A spoonful of sugar makes the medicine go down. 

*****

 

 

It had taken three broken ribs, a broken wrist, a broken nose, fifteen stitches in his cheek, eight more above his ear, and a concussion for Steve to execute Tony’s plan. He’d stumbled out of that penthouse prison with nothing except the too-small clothes on his back, one shoe, and the treasured picture of his mom at Coney Island. 

Falling down the spiral staircase to the floor of the omelette kitchen, with Alexander screaming through the hole above him, Steve had never felt so free. When his hands had hit the tile, he’d found himself surrounded by a dozen whole eggs and a bushel of the freshest tomatoes that he’d ever seen. They had floated around him like bubbles as Steve had followed his mom’s summertime footprints to the service elevator. As he’d slammed his bloody palm against the button, his own set of inky black wings had burst through his skin with glorious and welcome pain. They’d spread out so wide that Steve had barely fit through the metal doors, their feathery tips brushing against the silver walls as the floor numbers blinked lower and lower; seventy-three, fifty-one, thirty-seven, fourteen, nine...Steve had floated in the center of the elevator with the eggs and tomatoes, hovering with a new lightness as the box had descended to the underground parking garage; carrying him someplace new.

Steve had been stuck in the emergency room until seven in the morning, listening to the constant buzzing of the fluorescent lights and staring up at the graveyard of dead flies in the corners. He’d hated every second of it. Dr. Mason had  _ finally _ gotten Steve into a semi-private room with an actual hospital bed and his new Attending, Dr. Park, had  _ finally _ hooked Steve up with some really good drugs. According to Bucky, as soon as the morphine had hit his system, Steve had moaned like he’d been experiencing the best orgasm of his life. His alleged O face had led Bucky to insist that it was mandatory for everyone to rename poor Dr. Park, ‘Dr. Feelgood’. 

Around eight-thirty Bucky had excitedly brought Steve a yogurt parfait. There had been a very complex and confusing story about Bucky thinking that the yogurt had looked pretty when Natasha was spork feeding him after Officer Donut finally left. Bucky had rambled that he’d known the parfait would ‘be right up Steve’s alley because the blueberries had been  _ top notch _ ’, and he kept mumbling something about Steve making sure that he ‘chewed up the blueberries really, really good’. Even in Steve’s drug haze, he’d known that something was off; but there’d been so many doctors, nurses, residents, police, and yeah, he’d been pretty wasted, and...well, Steve had just been glad that Bucky’d been by his side.   

Dr. Feelgood had put his foot down about Bucky lying in the bed, so he’d curled up in the armchair in the corner an hour ago and had fallen asleep. His hair was completely covering his face, his jeans were shredded all the way down to the cuffs...they definitely hadn’t been like that yesterday...and, even squeezed into a little ball, Bucky looked way too big for the leather chair. Sometimes Steve forgot how long Bucky’s limbs were when he stretched them out to their maximum length, but when he’d carried Steve bridal style into the emergency room, he’d realized, maybe for the first time, just how big Bucky actually was. Last night, he hadn’t only seemed bigger than Steve, he’d seemed larger than life... 

Bucky had been there for Steve in ways that he hadn’t even known how to ask for. Without words, Bucky Barnes had been right there behind him, holding Steve up in every way that a person possibly could. Watching his wavy brown hair vacillating with every breath, Steve knew, with absolute certainty, that Bucky’s place would always be right beside him. 

Crimson red defining a new shift in Steve’s path, not a violent line designating an end, but an infinite curve winding forward to places unknown. Maybe it was the drugs talking, making everything seem clear and simple, or maybe his red colored pencil was showing him the way forward? One thing that Steve did know for sure was the new organic curve had begun with a tailored suit that didn’t fit...

 

 

The dreaded dinner party, god, where to even begin? Steve had been staring at his show pony reflection in the full length mirror in his walk in closet for twenty minutes, trying to come to terms with ‘the dreaded dinner party’. It wasn’t working. The new beige Armani suit that Jade had set out for him was too tight. When Steve rolled his shoulders he was positive that it was going to split open along the seams, and it was hard to resist the urge to flex his muscles and pop every single silk thread. 

Jade must have given the tailor his old measurements, the ones that had been taken last spring before Steve’s chest and shoulders had gotten broader and wider. The fabric was straining across his back, pulling a tight line between the peaks of his scapulas, the buttons on the white shirt were gaping from the tension, and the hem on the pants was at least half an inch too short. It would have fit him perfectly in May, but Steve wasn’t the same person that had taken Peggy Carter to the Junior Prom. He found his fingers lovingly rubbing the shoulder of the black suit that he’d worn to Homecoming with Bucky, touching the delicate white pinstripes and absently counting each one. Even though most of the memories from that night were horrible, at least the pinstriped fabric would fit Steve’s new form. 

Twelve stripes from shoulder to collar; Bucky laughing as Steve carefully placed the silver aviators onto his beautiful face at Tom Ford. Five stripes across the collar itself; Bucky dancing for Roman and the salesgirls, making them collectively drool as he sensually moved his hips in that shiny blue suit. That had been a good day, a  _ perfect _ day. Steve released the stripes, losing count of the ones traversing the arm, and turned back to the mirror.  _ No _ stripes on the dull beige suit, tailored especially for the boy whose only purpose was to blend seamlessly into the background of Alexander’s meticulously created illusion. 

Lurching for his Homecoming suit, Steve grabbed the dark blue pocket square and shoved it rebelliously into the beige; a hint of color to counteract the insufferable night. Sadly, as he straightened the tiny piece of silk, Steve knew that it was pointless; even the hint of color reminding him of Bucky’s joy wouldn’t be enough to make ‘the dreaded dinner party’ bearable.

First, there was tedious small talk over hors d’oeuvres, each bite carefully selected and prepared by Chef Antonia. The menu including a wide variety of fresh, seasonal ingredients…

 

Hors d’oeuvres

 

_ Escargots à la Bourguignonne  _

              Was Steve still the fastest swimmer on the Eaton team? Had he broken any school records recently? Why was he only the co-captain? Had scouts been coming to watch him at the meets?

 

_ Duck Foie gras served as a round  _

        Was Steve maintaining his perfect grade point average? Would he be Valedictorian or did Tony Stark have that in the bag? How many advanced placement classes was he taking? Had he applied for early acceptance into an Ivy League college? 

 

_ Smoked Salmon and Beluga Caviar Canapes on Brioche _

               How much time was Steve dedicating to charity work? What were the causes that he considered most important? Did he know that charity work was critical to a positive public persona?  

 

_ Crab Stuffed Shrimp wrapped in Artisanal Bacon _

              Alexander must be proud to have such a hard working young man as his stepson. Did Steve have aspirations to follow in  Alexander’s footsteps in the company?

 

Steve found it harder and harder to swallow every bite: the expensive clothes, the thick clouds of French perfume, the overly-white, fake smiles, and the goddamn disgusting fish eggs! When nobody was looking, Steve dumped the rest of the mush into a potted plant. He hoped it would decompose and make the whole penthouse reek of its reality; a glass and metal facade hiding a rotting core.

Alexander was being the consummate host, regaling his honored guests with tales of his successful exploits as a _father_ ; acting like they went to Central Park every day and gleefully tossed a baseball back and forth. Steve wanted to spit a giant glob of chewed up escargots right into his lying, smug face.

 

_ First Course _

Chestnut Fennel Soup

 

The long glass table was lined with white candles and carefully arranged amaryllis flowers, with a collection of small round mirrors scattered underneath the display. Steve had always thought that their decorator had a good sense of humor, and he truly appreciated her nod to narcissism as Alexander put on his big show. Sitting down at the table, Steve poked a finger at Alexander’s finest silver. Twelve utensils lined up to the millimeter at each place setting; there were fourteen people seated at the table, meaning one-hundred-sixty-eight polished forks, spoons and knives, each engraved with a swirling letter P.

Running his index finger along the blade of the meat knife, Steve was thankful that his last name started with the letter R. He  _ hated _ that his mother’s grave stone said ‘Sarah Rogers Pierce’; hated it with a passion! The owner of the flower shop next to the cemetery had become familiar with Steve’s habit of buying the tallest flowers in the store to lean against her gravestone. Bunches of daisies, dahlias, and roses covering up the ugliness, making the granite read ‘Sarah Rogers’ like it should.

Steve flipped all twelve pieces of silverware over, so he didn’t have to look at that letter, and thought about Bucky Barnes...B. He didn’t know what Bucky’s Russian last name had been before Mr. Barnes had adopted him. Why hadn’t Steve asked him that yet!? Had his first name always been Bucky? That didn’t sound Russian. He’d heard Bucky call his sister ‘Natalia’... 

Five silver forks put into five meaningless places, when Steve would give anything to ask Bucky five meaningful questions right this second! The desire to topple his chair backwards, so he could run across the Brooklyn Bridge and find out all the answers, was so strong that Steve found himself leaning back on two legs. He desperately wanted to snuggle in bed, like they’d talked about that afternoon; asking Bucky question after question and learning the intricacies of what made him tick. Two boys, embracing the simplicity of lounging around and pretending that society’s clock didn’t exist, while Steve traced the letters of Bucky’s Russian name onto the smooth skin of his naked stomach. _ Did Bucky know his birth parents? How’d he meet Natasha? How did he feel when he stepped off the plane in New York? How did he loose his accent? Was it a conscious effort or did it just disappear over time? _ And one bonus question:  _ would he say something to Steve in Russian? _ Maybe ‘I love you’?

 

_ Second Course _

Wilted Spinach Salad with Warm Apple Cider and Bacon Dressing

 

Steve was seated to Alexander’s right, because despite his wicked mortality, Pierce enjoyed feeling like God. He was preening at the head of the table in a black suit, his blond hair carefully pomaded to the side, and the wedding band on his left hand mocking the meaning. The Devil was an inaccurate comparison for Alexander Pierce, because even Lucifer had been beautiful once, alluring in his angelic splendor. Steve had never understood it, but his mother had seen  _ something _ in this man, and, as Steve watched him spilling lies across his wilted spinach salad, he suddenly understood. Alexander Pierce had been the serpent in the Garden; tempting Sarah Rogers with his clear blue eyes, seductive hiss, and the promise of a better life. Maybe his silver tongue had convinced her that cold marble and steel was stronger than the warm wood and crumbling brick that had protected Steve and his mother in Brooklyn? 

 

_ Third Course _

Butternut Squash Gnocchi with Sage Brown Butter

 

When the soup bowl was whisked away, the plate underneath was so shiny that it reflected Steve’s image and revealed his ravens. They were perched on the shoulders of his too-small suit and digging their talons into the beige fabric; just like the first night that they’d appeared, when Steve had sat bleeding next to his fucking truck, they were flanking him to create a symmetrical visage of an unknown future. 

He’d told Bucky about them, and he hadn’t run...

The server slid a plate full of tiny potato dumplings in front of him, and Steve wondered if ravens liked hand rolled pasta slathered with brown butter? He swallowed down his laughter, because he felt Alexander staring, and did what every good show pony does best: smiling politely and nodding at the woman in the grey silk blouse with the severe updo seated next to him. Her neck was encircled by a silver and diamond necklace, and Steve wished that his ravens would steal it with their sharp beaks and drop it in the middle of the Hudson River. 

Steve poked at a perfectly shaped dumpling with his pasta fork (second from the left). Would Tony’s plan really work. He stabbed another one. It  _ would _ work if Steve just committed, steeled himself, and remembered that the end was worth the means. His ravens were still here, so Steve figured that Tony’s idea had to be the right direction. He just had to wait, pretend to eat his gnocchi like a good boy, and drink white wine out of the fourth glass to the right until the opportunity presented itself. 

 

_ Fourth Course _

Smoked Cheddar Stuffed Chicken with Green Apple Slaw

 

Good boys pretend to laugh at the man with the forest green tie while they cut their chicken with the first fork to the left, but inside they’re thinking about the way Bucky’s wild hair had looked so inviting when it had peeked out from underneath his olive green beanie.

Good boys pretend to listen attentively to the woman with the distractingly over-filled lips while they use the silver prongs to rip the flesh off the bones, but inside they’re thinking about the sound of the red leather cuff snapping tightly around Bucky’s muscular arm. Inside they’re remembering the way that the black leather collar had felt when Steve had pulled back on it and pounded his…

“Steven!” Alexander snapped through clenched teeth. He was smiling, but Steve knew better. “Margot asked you a question.”

Steve had forgotten who the hell Margot was, who the hell any of them were, and  _ forgetting _ the names of Alexander’s dinner guests wasn’t something that  _ good boys _ were supposed to do. Looking desperately from face to face Steve tried to remember, but they all looked exactly the same.

The woman wearing the mauve silk blouse, with a severe updo, spoke up. “That’s all right, dear. We understand that the teenage mind has difficulty maintaining focus.” She took a long sip of her wine then gave Steve a fake smile. “What I asked you, young man, was, do you have a lucky young lady in your life?”

“Actually...” the man with the blue tie answered before Steve could process the question, “I was at the beach with my children on Sunday afternoon, and when I walked to the shore to tell our nanny to get Edward and Sophia out of the water, I saw Steven here, having a fantastic time with someone who I can only assume was his  _ boyfriend _ .”

Steve’s heart seized; every bit of blood squeezing out into his arteries and leaving the chambers completely empty...

“I mean, the two of you certainly  _ seemed _ very close.” When the man stabbed his fork into the chicken, forcing the cheese to ooze out the sides, Steve felt it in his stomach; sharp prongs impaling his intestines and pulling them out through the hole. “Unless, of course, you kiss  _ all _ the young men that you choose to spend your time with like you’re completely in love with them?”

“Oh my,” Margot scoffed, her disgust evident amongst a chorus of forks abruptly hitting china. 

“Ladies and gentlemen, we should all learn from Alexander’s example,” the man continued, raising his glass towards Alexander. “His accepting attitude towards his  _ gay _ son is highly commendable. If my son were to tell me that he was gay, then decided to gallivant around a public beach for  _ everyone _ to see, I don’t know if I could be so open minded.”

Alexander’s teeth were grinding together so loudly that the sound trumped the snickers and brazen hums of disapproval. “Well,” Alexander began, returning the toast, “we all need to evolve with the times, don’t we? I’ve always taught Steven to carefully evaluate where his choices will lead him and to accept the consequences of his chosen path. I’m just a father standing proudly behind the scenes, watching with interest as Steven forges his own path.” Turning, he waited for Steve to raise his own glass, then clinked the crystal hard enough that the stems threatened to snap. “Cheers to you,  _ son _ , and to the road that lies ahead of you.”

Steve could feel the pain already.

 

 

 

Standing side by side with Alexander as the elevator doors closed on the final guests, Steve knew that the moment had arrived. He hadn’t expected it to happen so soon, maybe a few weeks, perhaps even a month, but definitely not the day after Steve had decided. Was he strong enough? Would Tony follow through with his promises? Could Steve get to Bucky?

Alexander turned on his heel and disappeared into his office... and Steve...well, he waited. His mother had always told him that he shouldn’t run from a fight;  _ ‘Stand up for what you believe in, Steven, and always help those who aren’t strong enough to stand up for themselves’ _ . It had been the foundation that she’d built for him, the cornerstone of who he was  _ supposed _ to be. What would she say if she saw Steve staring at an elevator door, waiting to get his face bashed in? Would she tell him to turn around and fight, or would she understand that he was fighting Pierce in a different way? Steve shrugged the too-tight jacket off his broad shoulders and threw it on the floor, praying that she’d understand. When he yanked the tie from around his neck, Steve hoped that it would be enough to show her that he was fucking  _ done _ with the costume! Done with the fake smiles and the lies, done with the cruelty and abuse,  _ done _ ! He’d released the fourth button of the shirt when the baseball bat slammed into his ribcage from behind.

Steve dropped to the floor immediately, registering the sickening sound of his ribs cracking a second before the white hot pain ripped through his torso. The room was spinning and the edges of his vision were already tinged with red...but he had to stay down.  _ Stay down _ .

"How dare you tarnish the Pierce name with your perversion!?” The bat hit Steve across his upper back and he instinctively covered his head.  _ Stay down. _ “How dare you put a stain on the image of my company!? I took you in and gave you  _ everything,  _ and  _ this _ is the thanks I get?” 

Alexander kicked him where the ribs had already snapped, and, as Steve flipped over, he wondered if the sharp edges would puncture his lung.  _ Stay down. _ Push down the red...a means to an end...a means to an end. Suddenly, Pierce was straddling his chest, landing blow after blow, and the only thing that Steve could see was the bat rolling towards the elevator doors in slow motion, rolling, rolling, rolling...until it hit the tips of his mother’s toes.

_ “Steven?”  _

Spit was splattering all over Steve’s face as he allowed Alexander’s fists to pummel him... _ stay down _ . Something about it didn’t feel right...but Tony had said...

“...frolicking around with some  _ boy _ on the beach for everyone to see! I bet you’re  _ fucking _ him too!” Pieces of Steve’s hair ripped out when Alexander grabbed his head, bashing it so brutally against the marble that the room went black for a second...maybe two…maybe more. “You’ve been useless since you were twelve years old! Crumbs left on a plate, gum stuck to my shoe, a rat scavenging in my trash! I might have loved your mother once, but I’ve never even  _ liked _ you, and there’s no way in hell that I’ll allow your  _ sickness _ to be associated with my name!” 

Tony had said to take it... _ stay down. _ He had to push down every bit of red rage and just  _ take it _ . The ravens were waiting patiently.

_ “Steven. Get up.” _

“...can’t take a disgrace like you to the Met Gala!” Another kick to his ribs. “Is that why there was a twenty-nine-thousand dollar charge from Tom Ford!?” A brutal right hook split open Steve’s cheek, and another split it open even more, sending a ribbon of blood towards his mother’s toes and almost marring her pearlescent pink polish. But Steve didn’t move... _ stay down. _ ..even when the room tilted sideways and he couldn’t hold up his hands anymore... _ stay down. _ When Steve’s palms hit the marble, Alexander screamed, “You bought presents for your whore!?”

A slap resonated across the open wound, then another, and another...too many to count... _ stay down and take it _ ...until a powerful jab broke Steve’s nose. The motion of Alexander’s body was a violent blur as Steve waited, and waited, and waited for the sign that it was finally enough. It hurt, but it didn’t matter.

Then it happened; the beautiful expanses of black wings opened behind the blur of Alexander, and Steve smiled. He’d known that he could count on them to tell him, he’d known that they wouldn’t let him down. Steve flipped to his knees and crawled for the elevator, captivated by the trail of red he was leaving in his wake, until he reached her pretty pink toes. Grabbing the edge of her yellow sundress, Steve pulled himself up enough to slam his hand against the button. She smelled like summer, and Steve wanted to drown in her lemonade and daffodils.

But as soon as the doors opened, her feet were gone, and the ravens were no longer leading him forward. The cube was empty. 

_ “Steven, get up.” _

Whipping his head back, Steve used the edge of the elevator to find his footing, because her voice had come from the hallway! Alexander was still screaming, but Steve couldn’t hear him; a mouth opening and closing, spewing spit and hatred, and all that Steve could hear was the sounds of a warm summer day. The first stumbling step made Steve laugh, because one of his shoes had come off: bunny, no bunny, bunny, no bunny...

“...don’t ever come back…”

Why were the ravens hovering at the entrance to the hallway?

“...completely cut off…”

Staggering past Alexander, Steve followed their lead, retracing his own red path with a pattern of bunny, no bunny, bunny, no bunny...

“...where do you think you’re going!? Get out of…”

They weren’t even flapping their wings as they moved, gliding forward without vertical motion until Steve smelled the peppermint wafting out of his room. 

“...get back here…”

Steve started running because he knew. Oh god, he  _ knew  _ what he’d forgotten! Looking back, he saw Alexander grab the bat off the floor, so Steve moved faster, flinging himself through the door towards his bed. He couldn’t leave her! No no no no no! Steve stumbled onto his designated rectangle, landing with his face right above her...hurry...Alexander’s footsteps were approaching...he had to move  _ faster _ ! Thankfully the ravens pulled back the mattress for him, and, as he reached for her, Steve noticed their peppermints eyes. Despite the sharp taste of copper flooding his mouth, he could almost taste them. Grabbing the picture of his mom, he scrambled to make it out of the room before…

The bat smashed down on Steve’s wrist, and he heard it snap like a candy cane on Christmas morning. It was strange to watch the hand that was holding the photograph bend downwards, but his fingers didn’t drop her. Somehow, Steve held firm as he screamed, “You’ll never take her away from me!” and plowed past the serpent towards the spiral staircase. 

When the service elevator had finally reached the bottom floor, it’s doors opening to a new kind of freedom, Steve had hoped that his mother would understand in the end...

 

 

_ Dessert _

Generic Vanilla Yogurt Parfait with Frozen Blueberries and Stale Granola

 

Opening the parfait with one hand, Steve took a long look at it; layers of ivory white and Prussian blue, waiting to be swirled together by a plastic spork. Bucky had been right...Steve did think that it was pretty;  _ much  _ prettier than anything he’d been served last night.

There was such simple pleasure in watching Bucky sleeping in the armchair, tiny snores escaping from beneath his curtain of hair, and his torn jeans letting Steve peek at his strong legs. Bucky’s serenity made Steve feel safe enough to press the button on the morphine again and to focus on the sweetness of the blueberries.

*****

 

 

A huge bouquet of flowers walked into the room; no head, no body, just an entire garden shoved into a glass vase, plus feet. Bucky had been sitting in the armchair pretending to fuck around on his phone, but it was only a cover since he couldn’t see shit through the cracked screen. His real mission had been subtly peeking at Steve every ten seconds to make sure that he wasn’t gonna stop breathing or something. He’d been sleeping for awhile now, and Bucky couldn’t stop staring at him. Seriously, Steve was so many shades of black and blue that Bucky was pretty sure that he wouldn’t be allowed to put ‘Caucasian’ on his driver’s license at this point. Quite frankly, it was freaking Bucky out. 

The flower creature strutted right up to him, wearing a pair of ridiculous sneakers that could only belong to Tony; they were some sort of weird black high-top/Adidas looking quilted somethings with a giant red eyelet stuck on the side for no reason. Bucky suspected that they’d cost more than his dad’s Toyota, and, while it pained him, he had to admit that they were cool as fuck. 

Suddenly, the heels tapped together three times, and the bouquet said, “There’s no place like home, Buckyboo. Or, in this case, a cozy hospital room which  _ is _ probably Steve’s home at this point, judging by the looks of it. God, he looks like shit.” 

Bucky was too tired to deal with anything Tony Stark related right now, but Steve wouldn’t let up with the, ‘Bucky, you need to call Tony, and tell him that it’s done,’ mantra (whatever the hell that meant) until Bucky had begrudgingly given in and used Steve’s phone to text him around noon. In Steve’s diminished state (high as a kite) the reasoning had remained top secret, and Bucky certainly hadn’t expected Tony to show up thirty minutes later with a giant flower head. 

Scrubbing his hands over his face, Bucky leaned back in the chair and groaned. He’d managed  _ maybe _ an hour of restless sleep jammed onto this stupid, uncomfortable, torture chair before the orthopedic surgeon had shown up to take another look at Steve’s wrist. Good news: the break had been clean enough to go ahead and set it without surgery, and Steve was now the owner of a super cool blue cast. Bad news: Steve’s face, chest, ribs, and back matched his super cool blue cast (not cool), and Bucky was running on fumes. His dad had taken Natasha home around nine then had gone to Eaton, with the promise that he’d return by dinner time with a new set of clothes and a pizza from Anthony’s. Bucky had been doing a really good job acting brotherly all morning, only slobbering all over his black and blue boyfriend when they were alone...or, at least,  _ mostly _ alone. The poor guy who was stuck sharing the room had his leg trapped in some sort of medieval traction device, so he couldn’t escape the sight of Bucky’s subtle ear nibbles (to the less damaged right side), subtle dick grabs (no injuries there, thank god!), or the  _ not so subtle _ dick grabs (penis therapy). Luckily, Leg Dude had been really engrossed in a marathon of ‘The Price is Right’, so Bucky’d had plenty of opportunities to keep right on touching...to make Steve smile, to make sure that he was safe, to double check that he was still breathing, and to make absolutely certain that Steve was actually  _ here.  _ But as soon as Bucky had put out the Bat Signal for Stark, Steve had fallen asleep like a switch had been flipped, and the groping had been put on hold. 

The truth was, Bucky  _ still  _ wasn’t supposed to be here,  _ especially _ not outside of visiting hours, but he’d implemented ‘Operation Flirtation Manipulation’ while Steve was getting his arm wrapped up in plaster. 

 

Phase One: Innocent Flirting.

Designated Targets: Tami the head nurse. The four other nurses on the morning shift (Melissa, Karen, Gina, Jason). 

Secondary Target: Dr. Feelgood (target requires subtle charm).

Tactics:

  1. Play with hair while leaning on the counter at nurse’s station. Tell clever jokes to make targets laugh and lower their guard.
  2. Acquire red lollipop out of complementary bowl, seductively lick and suck on candy while pretending to read ‘People’ magazine on the couch outside Steve’s room.
  3. Bite and nibble the tip of thumb and grin while deploying a series of compliments. Traditional approaches: unique eye color, smile, hairstyle.



 Phase One Result: Success. Targets’ defenses lowered enough for launch of Phase Two.

 

Phase Two: Shameless Exploitation of Six-Pack.

Designated Targets: All nurses on shift. 

Tactics:

  1. Adjust position of jeans for maximum impact, lowering them to calculated level: hip bones exposed, dick the only anatomical structure preventing them from falling off completely.
  2. Assume strategic position in front of each target.
  3. Yawn, lift arms high above head and stretch.
  4. Confirm that shirt is riding up high enough to give target a good show. 
  5. Hold for minimum of five seconds, injecting subtle moan, expansion and contraction of abdominals, and hip roll.
  6. Repeat ‘Ab Attack’ five times, or, until all targets are neutralized. 



Phase Two Result: Success.

 

Mission Outcome: Asset awarded an All-Access VIP Backstage Pass to Steve’s big concert in room 313. 

Unintended Bonus: All six targets were now waving at Bucky like they were best friends whenever they came in the room to poke at Steve. Nurse Karen had even brought him a little can of apple juice and a package of peanut butter crackers. 

Critical Intel for Future Operatives: Flirting gets you far in life, kiddies. Master this critical skill in the bathroom mirror while you’re still young, and delicious little cans of apple juice and yummy crackers will be in your future.

 

The point was, Bucky’s flirting skills had allowed him to be there when the head of plastic surgery had carefully sewn the stitches into Steve’s cheek. Apparently, if the patient is a handsome teenager, the big guy on campus shows up to work his magic and prevent a huge scar from forming across Steve’s pretty face. He’d also held Steve’s hand as a shaky resident had stitched up the gash above his ear (if the hair will hide it they send in the trainees). He’d been there when Karen and Jason had come in to adjust the mummification of Steve’s broken ribs, when the neurologist had done her exam, when Gina had drawn more blood, when Melissa had helped Steve piss into a bottle, when Jason had changed the bandages on Steve’s nose, and Bucky had been there, every hour, on the hour, when Dr. Feelgood checked Steve’s vitals because of the concussion. Bucky hadn’t missed a thing.

Watching the parade of doctors and nurses coming and going, Bucky couldn’t help but think of those nature shows on Nat Geo, the kind that were filmed by some wacky camera crew deep in the jungles of the Amazon where leaf cutter ants move in an endless stream, hauling around their little leaf sandwiches. One after the other, the white coats and happy face scrubs paraded in with pills, needles, salve, pin lights, ice packs...and on and on and on...back and forth on their little insect legs and making Bucky’s skin  itch. It was exhausting. He was  _ fucking exhausted _ and he just wanted to crawl into bed next to Steve and fall asleep for days.

Things had  _ finally _ chilled out thirty minutes ago, and Bucky had  _ finally _ gotten the chance to take some deep breaths in the stupid chair and try to relax, but nooo... Bucky wasn’t allowed to rest, chill, snooze, nap, catch some Zs, nope...because the biggest ant of them all had just shown up wearing six mini pairs of fancy ass sneaker on his appendages, carrying the biggest fucking leaf in the jungle. 

Suddenly, Tony shoved the gigantic bunch of flowers into Bucky’s lap, the flowers attacking his face and making him sneeze immediately (fucking lilies!), then start coughing (like  _ five varieties _ of fucking lilies!), and finally start gasping for air. “Oh my god, Tony. I’m allergic to these fucking things! Get them away from me!”

“Tony…” Steve mumbled, because obviously Stark’s loud ass voice and Bucky’s aversion to lilies had woken him up.

“Holy fucking shit, Steve!” Tony exclaimed, ignoring Bucky completely. “When I told you to let Pierce beat the shit out of you, I didn’t  _ actually _ mean that you should let him beat the shit out you like you were the main card at an MMA fight! Did Pierce lock you in the octagon? Your face looks like you almost died!”

“I didn’t almost die.” 

“Wait, what!?” Bucky tried to set the monstrosity on the floor, because it was too fucking big to fit on the fucking night stand, but the damn thing tipped over and spilled water and mother fucking lilies all over the floor. Standing up, Bucky kicked the vase because  _ what the fuck! _ ? “What are you talking about, Tony!?”

“Hey, I worked really hard carrying those gorgeous flowers up here! Hospital security only let my driver carry them all the way to Steve’s door!” Tony threw his hands up in the air and gave him the stank eye, like Bucky would give a shit. He didn’t.

Stepping over the pile of lilies and green leafy crap, Bucky got right in Steve’s face, who, despite all the swelling, bandages, and drugs, looked sheepish as fuck. “What the hell is he talking about, Steve?”

Even though Bucky wasn’t talking to him, Tony rolled his eyes, sat his ass down on the end of the bed like he fucking owned the place, and answered, “I’m _ talking about  _ how my plan worked perfectly; even though your dipshit boyfriend let it go a lot further than what we discussed over delicious fish tacos.” Patting Steve’s foot, he dared to chuckle. “Seriously, Steve, you let him break your fucking arm? That’s real commitment. How did he...” 

“Shut the fuck up! I’m not talking to you!” Bucky felt bile rising in his throat, and he leaned over Steve and whispered, “What’s he talking about?”

“I didn’t hit him back,” Steve slurred, raising his chin and meeting Bucky’s gaze.

“What!? What are you  _ talking _ about!? You should have hit him back!”

Since Dr. Feelgood had hooked Steve up with something pretty close to Mr. Brownstone, Bucky  _ might _ have considered cutting him some slack on the overly simplistic answers, if he wasn’t getting so pissed. When Steve grabbed for his hand and murmured, “No, baby. It wouldn’t have worked then,” Bucky got  _ extra _ fucking pissed!

Swiveling his head back towards the dick behind him, Bucky hissed, “ _ What _ wouldn’t have worked?” 

Tony shrugged his shoulders then strolled over to Bucky’s chair, kicking the fucking flowers with his eight-hundred-dollar shoes. Bucky wanted to punch him when he casually flopped down and threw his feet over the armrest. The fucker didn’t say a word as he stared at his fingernails like he was admiring his goddamn manicure!

“I  _ said _ ,  _ what _ wouldn’t have worked!?”

“Oh my god, calm down. The  _ plan _ , which I’m pleased to inform you is running smoothly,” Tony scoffed, like he’d just revealed that he and Steve had devised a grand scheme to make peanut butter and jelly sandwiches for dinner, not some idiotic plan for Steve to get hurt!

Bucky had crossed over the edge; leaping from  _ fucking pissed _ to  _ atomic bomb angry _ . He could feel the energy of it building in his hands, and the vibration in his legs telling him to take Stark’s head off. Boots crushing colorful lilies in a puddle of water, Mr. Hyde emerging without a potion... _ burn burn, yes ya gonna burn _ ...“You better fucking tell me right now, or I’m gonna put you in a goddamn hospital bed next to Steve! Do you fucking understand me, Stark!?”

Scrubbing his hand across his mouth and setting his feet back on the ground, Tony sniffed before picking up a few tiger lilies and setting the vase upright. “Bucky, listen, I didn’t think that it would go this far, I mean, this is awful, but you’ve got to understand that it’s better for Steve in the long run. Pierce made bail before they even got him processed, which we’d expected, but my dad’s team of lawyers have already contacted Mr. Pierce’s team and they’re going into negotiations tomorrow morning. The conditions that we outlined were already submitted to Pierce, and the fact that they weren’t bounced right back to my dad’s lawyers is good news.”

Bucky didn’t understand a single word that was pouring out of Tony Stark’s mouth, and when he looked to Steve for answers, he’d fallen back asleep. How many times had he pushed that goddamn morphine button!? You know who could use some of Dr. Feelgood’s poison? Bucky! Tony had moved on to rescuing the pink lilies, even the ones that Bucky had crushed, and was carefully placing them in between the angry orange tigers.

“He’s going to get everything that he needs out of this, Bucky. I know it’s bad, but it was the best way.”

Steve had somehow driven all the way to Brooklyn, bloody and dazed, to ask Bucky for help...not to Tony Stark’s fucking mansion! He’d entrusted the photograph of his mom to _Bucky_...not the asshole pretending to be a fucking florist! Steve had trusted Bucky enough to do those things, but not enough to tell him what the fuck was going on in the first place? He didn’t understand. Sinking down to his knees, his shredded jeans quickly soaking up the cold water, Bucky grabbed two of the stinking white lilies and crushed them in his palms. The petals collapsed easily, turning to mush as he hissed, “ _What_ are you talking about?”

There was a pause as Bucky stared at Tony’s shoes; there was no heel tapping now, no swinging them in the air, no cocky saunter...no nothing. Tony Stark was sitting completely still when he answered Bucky’s question. “When Steve came over Monday, I offered him a way out. That shit with the burn on his arm...you and I both know that it was only gonna get worse with Pierce, and that the second Steve reported the prick, he’d be out on his ass...so I offered Steve a solution. My dad’s legal team would represent him, but the injuries  _ had _ to be severe enough that Alexander wouldn’t be able to say that Steve was lying, or that he’d fallen down the stairs, or that he’d gotten into a fight at school; because, let’s be honest, who would believe Steve over Alexander Pierce? I don’t even think that my dad believed me. It took four Rum and Cokes and an hour of creative begging to get him to agree to cover the legal fees; and I’m positive that he only said yes to get me to shut me up and leave him alone. Steve agreed that the next time Pierce flipped out he wouldn’t try to stop him, because if he fought back in any way Pierce could claim self-defense. The case had to be rock solid for…”

“You convinced Steve to let this happen?” The pile of crushed petals was growing around Bucky; white, pink, yellow, orange, and red...

“No, Bucky,  _ we _ made a plan. I didn’t think that Pierce would break his fucking arm!”

“You  _ convinced _ Steve to let this happen.” 

Tony was trying to grab the remaining flowers before Bucky could crush them, but he wasn’t fast enough. When Bucky ripped a red lily right out of his hand, Tony’s eyes registered fear, and he started talking faster and faster. “The lawyers are going to get Pierce to settle in exchange for Steve dropping the charges and keeping this out of the press. We’re going for a fifteen-thousand-dollar monthly stipend that he’ll get until he’s twenty-four. Don’t you get it? Pierce is going to have to pay for Steve to go to college  _ and _ graduate school; wherever he wants to go. Harvard? Stanford? Cambridge? He’ll have to pay for the whole thing. Health insurance? Pierce is gonna pay for it. The Escalade? Steve’s to keep. There’s even a condition that Pierce won’t be allowed to contact Steve unless it’s through my dad’s lawyers. Bucky, it’s a great deal and I  _ know _ that Pierce will jump at the chance to save his reputation and keep his hands clean. You can’t think…”

“Blood money,” Bucky interrupted.

“What?”

“You talked Steve into accepting blood money?”

“No...I mean, yes...but I didn’t…”

The water had wicked up the denim to the tops of Bucky’s thighs, and the chill was creeping higher and higher, making goosebumps rise on the skin underneath. It came from deep inside when Bucky hissed, “He  _ hates _ that truck.” 

“What? Bucky, I…”

“Get out.”

Tony bent forward and put one final yellow lily in the center of the ruined bouquet before standing up and stepping over Bucky’s piles of crushed flowers. “I know you’re mad, but…”

“This isn’t who Steve is,” Bucky whispered.

“You’ve been dating him for like two weeks, he’s been my best friend for over three years, I think I know who Steve is! So don’t you tell…”

“No, you don’t.” Bucky said it quietly, wishing that his words would sneak up behind Tony and crush his windpipe. Trailing his fingers through the water, he thought about how happy Steve had been on the beach; revealing his top secret Graffiti Spy identity, shoving a Nathan’s hotdog in his mouth, and throwing a frisbee high into the air. Bubbly love, sappy notes in the sand, the sweetness of melting popsicles, and a joyful selfie snapped in the sun...

Grabbing the vase, Bucky slowly tipped it upside-down and dumped every single flower back onto Tony Stark’s sneakers, hissing, “You don’t know Stevie at all.”

*****

 

 

Steve was sick of being stuck in the middle of these four walls; his roommate snored, even though it was almost midnight there was constant noise, the sirens outside the emergency entrance wailed endlessly, and they’d taken away the morphine. Dr. Feelgood had left Steve high and dry, and the nurse had shown up with her useless little cup of Extra Strength Tylenol, hoping that Steve was stupid enough to fall for the placebo effect. He wasn’t; everything hurt and the ache deep in his bones was keeping him awake more than the noise. They’d made him stay another night due to the severity of the concussion, and even though they were supposed to let him out in the morning, right now that felt like it was years away.

Tony had wisely waited until after Mr. Barnes had made Bucky go home after they’d eaten the pizza he’d brought. Steve was assuming that Tony had a fucking spy on his payroll, because not even forty-five minutes after Bucky had kissed Steve goodbye, he’d shown up with a bottle of champagne and a cookie bouquet, declaring their success. All Steve had to do was sign on the dotted line when the lawyers came by in the morning. 

While he’d eaten an oatmeal cookie and had watched Tony gloat, Steve couldn’t help but think about how pissed Bucky had been. The hint of anger hiding in Bucky’s eyes made it obvious that he’d wanted to yell at Steve all afternoon... but he hadn’t said a word... instead, he’d apologized for going postal on Tony’s flowers, had sang the chorus of ‘Dr. Feelgood’ every time the poor man had come into the room, and had fed Steve huge bites of pizza, laughing when a big glob of sauce had dripped onto his chest. If Steve wasn’t in so much pain, he knew damn well that Bucky would have laid into him for letting this happen. 

Now, staring at the empty wall in front of him, aimlessly wasting the hours until the lawyers waltzed in with an overpriced fountain pen and the paperwork to give Alexander a pass, Steve wondered if Bucky was right. 

_ “Do you think you’re making the right choice, Steven?” _

His mom was standing in the doorway, the fluorescent lights behind her obscuring her features, but her long blonde hair and flowing yellow skirt were lit up around the edges. Her feet were still bare and they seemed to be hovering a few inches off the floor. She looked so real; not how she’d looked at her end, but how she’d looked at Steve’s beginning. Since they’d taken him off the morphine, he couldn’t even blame the drugs for her presence.

“Hi, mom.”

_ “Hi, sweetheart. Can I ask you a question?” _

The tears came, and the desire to be small enough to fit into her arms. “Anything.”

_ “If you were to build a home for this boy that you love, what would it look like?” _

He let out a strangled sob and closed his eyes for a second...just for a second to catch his breath...and when he opened them again, her hair was floating in the air like the strands had been swept up in a summer breeze.

“It would be something small; a studio or a flat.” Steve pictured Bucky’s weird shit overlapping his books and art supplies. “Someplace small enough that we’d get into one another’s space all the time; where his stinky sneakers would always end up under my kitchen chair, and my pencils would roll underneath his pillow after I’d drawn another picture of his toothy smile.” Steve laughed through his tears.

_ “And what would you fill it with, Steven?” _

That was easy. “A beat up couch with a dip in the center. A bed where our feet will hang over the edge because we’re too tall for it. I’d put up shelves so he’d have room to spread out his stuff. He has this Joker doll that he’s obsessed with, and he really should have a special shelf for it, and…”

_ “Sweetheart, don’t you see it? The mistake that I made?” _

“Mom, you didn’t make any mistakes…”

_ “I took away your home, and you’re still searching for it six years later. Steven, the answer is right in front of your nose. You just need to see it. I can tell you one thing for sure... you won’t find what you’re looking for at the end of a fancy ink pen.” _

Steve blinked and she was gone; another empty doorway in another empty room…another rectangle, within a rectangle, within a rectangle...and there was no sign of home anywhere. He missed her simple cotton dresses, he missed the splinters that he’d gotten when he’d run across their wooden floors in Brooklyn, he missed eating Spaghettios for dinner, and he missed saving the sticks from popsicles so that he could build himself tiny wooden houses with Elmer’s glue after school. He missed all of it…and, suddenly, he knew right where to find it.

Ripping the tape off his arm with his teeth, Steve yanked out the IV then threw back the scratchy blanket. As soon as his bare feet hit the floor, he remembered that Bucky was supposed to bring Steve clothes before he was discharged in the morning. Shit. Not only did he have nothing to wear, but he’d stood up too quickly, and the blood shifting in his body was making him list to the left. Shit, shit, shit. A hospital gown and a trail of blood running down his arm from the IV... that was the extent of Steve’s possessions...and it didn’t matter. Steve grabbed the dirty towel that was hanging over the bathroom door and wrapped it around his waist. The pain everywhere was making him nauseous, and he was so fucking dizzy, but he had to go! Holding the damp towel with one hand, Steve crossed the threshold, and he could still smell her; fresh apple pie straight out of the oven…

Since it was late, the hallway was pretty much empty. It only took Steve three doors to find a closet with spare scrubs, but, as he frantically dug through the stacks of folded cotton, he realized that every single pair was too small. Awkwardly tugging on the biggest pair of pants that he could find, Steve laughed at the synchronicity. The stitches pulled on his cheek as he smiled inside the dark hospital closet, because the pants were three inches too short. Of course, they were. He couldn’t find a shirt that was much better, his shoulders pulling that same tight line across his back. God had a really twisted sense of humor, and quite frankly Steve was getting really sick of him. Scanning the shelves, his eyes landed on a big plastic bin filled with those weird hospital grippy socks. Shit. Whatever...they’d have to do. Steve almost fell over trying to put them on one handed, and he knocked the whole bin all over the floor, but he didn’t care...he didn’t care about any of this. He just had to get the hell out of these suffocating walls.

Only three people had looked at Steve funny as he’d wandered around trying to find the exit, but nobody had tried to stop him. It wasn’t until he’d shoved through the revolving doors that led to the Brooklyn sidewalk that he’d realized that he didn’t have his wallet, or his phone, or... anything. He chuckled as he stumbled down the street, because the absence of everything made Steve feel as light as air.

Once, on the Saturday before Memorial Day when Steve had been in first grade, his mom hadn’t made it to the bank in time to cash her weekly paycheck. Instead of panicking, she’d made a game out of scrounging around their apartment looking for loose change hidden between the couch cushions, tucked deep inside pants pockets, and accidentally swept under the beds. She’d even let Steve smash his piggy bank with a hammer, which had been the most exciting part of the whole adventure! With their treasure they’d bought a bunch of ramen noodles and a single loaf of white bread, forsaking milk, orange juice, and Dr. Pepper to drink water out of the tap instead. His mom had held Steve’s hand as they’d taken long walks up and down the sidewalks in their neighborhood, using their idle time to sweep old Mr. Newman’s front steps and to walk Susie O’Brien’s rowdy Dalmatian while she’d been at work. Monday afternoon, they’d pulled out Steve’s crayons and had draw little pictures of American flags, writing ‘thank you’ across the stripes, before taping them to a handful of Steve’s treasured popsicle sticks. They’d waited until after they’d eaten their twenty cent dinner to go on their secret mission to stick their flags into specific flower boxes, mailboxes, and screen doors. For several blocks in every direction, Sarah Rogers had known which of her neighbors had members who’d served their country  _ and _ those families who’d made the ultimate sacrifice. Walking back home after every one of their ‘thank you notes’ had been delivered, fireflies had lit their way and the smell of hamburgers cooking on charcoal grills had filled the air, and, even at seven-years-old, Steve had known that his mother was his hero.

Now, on another Brooklyn night so many years later, she was still guiding him as he walked down the sidewalk to do the right thing. Grippy socks on cracked cement at midnight, too small scrubs squeezing his ass like you wouldn’t believe, a blue cast holding him together until he could mend, a line of stitches curving across his cheekbone, and his nose in a fucking splint...stopping to stare at his reflection in the window of a parked minivan, Steve pulled it off his face, because if anything made him look conspicuous it was the giant white splint on his nose. Yeah right. 

He passed a store that sold vacuum cleaners, another that peddled clocks, a laundromat with a row of people smoking outside while they waited for their underwear to dry, and a bar where a drunk guy in a leather jacket offered Steve a hit off his joint. There were countless churches with witty sayings on their signs that were designed to lure parishioners with their cleverness; phrases like ‘Prayer...the best wireless connection’ or ‘Forgiveness is to swallow when you want to spit’. Steve had to stop and read that last one twice, openly giggling when he thought about Bucky swallowing every drop and licking his cupid bow lips. The thought alone made the scrubs even tighter. Eventually, the stores and churches gave way to rows of houses that were squished together so tightly that only the thinnest of tomcats could squeeze between them. 

It had taken Steve a long time, wandering up and down the grid of streets, until he  _ finally _ found Bucky’s house. He’d only been there three times, and even though the general location was familiar, Steve had obviously never walked there in the middle of the night while he was about to puke, fall over, and pass out. By the time he finally found it, his ribs were aching, his head was throbbing, and there were big holes in the bottoms of his no-longer-grippy socks.

_ “If you could build him a home, Steven, what would it look like?” _

The concrete stairs were cracking around the edges, and the leaves that had started to fall were gathered in crunchy orange piles in the corners. There was a window box filled with nothing but dirt and three pink plastic flamingos sticking up in a neat little flamingo row, and the rusty mailbox next to the screen door had a little metal anchor engraved on the front. Running his finger over the shape, Steve felt it moor him.

_ “What would you fill it with?”  _

Staring at the door, Steve realized that he hadn’t really thought this through. All of the windows were dark and it had to be at least two in the morning, but the doorbell was glowing underneath Steve’s fingertip and he’d come too far not to push it.

_ “The answer is right in front of your nose.”  _

It took a few minutes, and two more rings, for Phil Barnes, wearing a Knicks sweatshirt and white boxers, to open the wooden door. 

The only thing that Steve could think to say was, “I made a mistake.”

Bucky’s dad waited a beat, no doubt shocked by the sight of an escaped hospital patient standing on his doorstep, before gasping, “How did you get here?”

“I walked.”

“You walked  _ four miles _ in socks!?”

“Well, they used to be grippy on the bottom.”

“Okay, then...well, um...” Mr. Barnes opened the screen and stepped aside. “I guess, jesus, Steve, let’s start by getting you off the porch.” As soon as Steve crossed the threshold, Bucky’s dad muttered, “I suppose you stole those scrubs.”

“I stole the scrubs.”

“Steve, you should have just called, I would…”

“I stole the socks too.”

There was no reaction to his admission of theft, only helpful hands guiding Steve to the bench next to the heaping pile of shoes. Bucky’s checkered Vans were thrown on top, and Steve wanted to put them on over his ruined grippy socks, but Mr. Barnes’ told him not to move and disappeared into the basement. The quiet sounds of the house made everything seem like it was finally slowing down; the static that had been surrounding Steve for so many years discharging and sparking in the tiny foyer. Every snap of electricity released Steve from the noise, letting him get closer and closer to a place that was truly quiet; a space helmet built for two or an island covered with snow white sand. 

When Mr. Barnes returned, he had some of Bucky’s clothes in his arms... and a pair of taco pants were hanging down below the rest. Every planet had to align for Bucky’s dad to be holding the same pants that Bucky had talked about on the roof; crispy corn shells filled with spicy meat, lettuce, cheese, and fresh tomatoes telling Steve that he was exactly where he was supposed to be. 

Bucky’s dad helped Steve put on those cosmic taco pants, then carefully slid a soft navy sweatshirt past the cast and over his head. There was a huge donut on the front, with white icing covered with red and blue sprinkles, and it made Steve want to buy Bucky a whole dozen in every flavor. Steve was given a glass of ice cold milk with a straw and a piece of string cheese that had already been peeled out of its plastic wrapper. The gestures made Steve feel warm, like he was protected by the welcome presence of a papa bear. Once Steve had eaten, Mr. Barnes said the most wonderfully simple sentence. “Go climb into bed, son. I know you’re tired.”

He was tired.

Steve followed him up the stairs, and the remainder of his sparks fizzled out along the walls of the narrow hallway as they moved, until Mr. Barnes stopped at Bucky’s door and the hall went dark.  _ Bucky’s _ door. The surrealism of the moment hit, and the world stopped spinning enough for Steve to find his footing. 

The knob was turned, and the door was opened, before Bucky’s dad whispered, “You’re  _ both _ tired.” Nodding towards the shape on the bed, he said, “Go rest. You deserve it.”

Did he? Steve  _ wanted _ to deserve it, but he’d made such a horrible mistake...

As soon as the door clicked behind him, Steve took in the comforting mess of Bucky’s room in the moonlight. It was only the second time that Steve had been in Bucky’s space and the second time that he’d walked over the threshold a bloody, black and blue mess. That probably said something, but he was too damn tired to deal with it right now. He spotted Bucky’s space unicorn phone on the corner of the desk, and his star headphones were hanging over the back of the pink chair. Carefully grabbing both, Steve sank down and leaned against the wall next to the bed, staring at Bucky’s naked back that was peeking out above the covers. His face was all scrunched up on the pillow, and his hair was looping and twisting everywhere. One bare foot was sticking out below the star comforter, and Steve longed to kiss each toe. Bucky’s knee was sticking out too, revealing peppermints and polar bears dancing under the tiny pieces of light refracting off the disco ball. He was beautiful. Plain and simple. But the thing that caught Steve’s attention was the stuffed panda bear snuggled underneath Bucky’s arm. The tag was still attached to its fuzzy panda ear, and the way that Bucky was holding it so tightly made Steve understand  _ exactly _ what his mother had been trying to tell him.

There was a song that Steve used to play over and over on repeat while he’d stared at the white ceiling in his prison; ten times in a row, twenty, thirty, countless repetitions spanning the time that he’d been trapped in a gilded cage. Despite the shattered screen, he managed to pull it up on Youtube and hit play before putting on the patriotic headphones one-handed. As the first piano notes synchronized with Steve’s slowing heartbeat, he lovingly stared at Bucky Barnes and listened with brand new ears.

‘The Cinematic Orchestra’ had gotten Steve through a lot of really bad days, and ‘To Build a Home’ had been the one song that had always given him hope, even at the worst of times. As soon as the familiar melody washed over him and combined with the rhythm of Bucky’s breathing, it became the song that Steve had always wanted it to be. 

 

_ There is a house built out of stone _

_ Wooden floors, walls and window sills _

_ Tables and chairs worn by all of the dust _

_ This is a place where I don’t feel alone _

_ This is a place where I feel at home _

_ ‘Cause, I build a home _

_ For you _

_ For me _

_ Until it disappeared _

_ From me _

_ From you _

_ And now, it’s time to leave and turn to dust _

_ Out in the garden where we planted the seeds _

_ There is a tree as old as me _

_ Branches were sewn by the color of green _

_ Ground had arose and passed it’s knees _

_ By the cracks of skin I climbed to the top _

_ I climbed the tree to see the world _

_ When the gusts came around to blow me down _

_ I held on as tightly as you held onto me _

 

Sarah Rogers, with her bare toes and pretty pink polish, was perched above Bucky’s bed on the edge of the window. Steve could see right through her, the roofs and chimneys of the houses across the street dividing her ghost into sections, and the shingles and bricks making homegrown patterns on her translucent skin. The light from the disco ball danced inside of her core. 

_ “Have you figured it out yet, Steven? If you were to build a home for this boy that you love, what would it look like?” _

He finally knew the right answer; the words of the song transforming the images in his mind into something clear and defined. Everything sharpened and his mother smiled, daffodil bright, before the window became a window again. 

If Steve were to build a home for Bucky, who he loved with all his heart, it would look like Sunday morning waffles covered in blueberries and whipped cream, fights about Bucky hogging the covers, surprise attacks in the kitchen to plant kisses on ears while bacon sizzled in a pan...it would look like two toothbrushes stuck in one holder, and mail for two people delivered to one box. It would look exactly the same no matter what surrounded them; brick, stone, wood, glass...or nothing at all.

It took Steve three steps to reach him, one second to throw the headphones on the floor and listen to the present, and no time at all to slide underneath the blanket. Wrapping his cast over Bucky’s stomach, he took four relieved breathes before Bucky mumbled something and nuzzled tightly against Steve’s shoulder; the instantaneous connection settling their bodies together...heavy and solid on newly broken ground.

Closing his eyes, Steve felt their foundation expanding and taking root in the space beneath them; their intertwining bodies building the framework and their synchronized breaths materializing the joists. Sturdy brick made out of bone, insulation made from muscle, the wiring that would power their lights generated by their pulsating vessels, and a front door guarded by an eight-chambered heart. 

As Steve kissed the the top of Bucky’s head, the pressure of his lips wrote cursive words on the mat that would lay in front of their door; loops and curves finally revealing the answer to everything. Steve used two strong, healthy hands to shake out the dirt and dust before carefully placing it in front of their threshold.

It read, “Welcome Home.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading. I thrive on comments and conversation, so I’d love to hear from you! 
> 
> Chapter 18 Playlist   
> [youtube](https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCjADIMzQjvmnAs-nGoSG0JQ)
> 
> 1\. Thousand Foot Krutch- Breathe You In  
> 2\. Soundgarden- Burden in My Hand  
> 3\. Julia Michaels- Issues  
> 4\. Velvet Revolver- Fall to Pieces  
> 5\. Elton John- Don’t Let the Sun Go Down On Me  
> 6\. Hozier- Take Me to Church  
> 7\. Chevelle- The Red  
> 8\. Bring Me the Horizon- Hospital for Souls  
> 9\. Radiohead- Lucky  
> 10\. Sleeping With Sirens- Fire  
> 11\. The Ataris- Boys of Summer  
> 12\. AJR- Weak  
> 13\. Cory Branan- The Last Man on Earth  
> 14\. Sleeping With Sirens- Iris (live)  
> 15\. Mazzy Star- Fade Into Me  
> 16\. George Michael- Father Figure  
> 17\. Motley Crue- Home Sweet Home  
> 18\. Radiohead- The Tourist  
> 19\. The Cinematic Orchestra- To Build a Home
> 
> Chapter 18 Trivia (answer in the comments and I’ll send you delicious virtual goodies!)  
> In the scene where Bucky is yelling at the old people at the hospital, he calls them ‘the olds’. What Stucky fanfiction am I paying tribute to? It’s my favorite Stucky fic ever!  
> What band is Bucky referencing when he renames one of Steve’s doctors ‘Dr. Feelgood’?  
> Later, Bucky says that ‘Dr. Feelgood’ gave Steve something close to ‘Mr. Brownstone’. What am I referring to?  
> One of the questions that Steve wanted to ask Bucky was, ‘Did he make a conscious effort to lose his accent, or did it just disappear over time’? Any idea what I was thinking about when I wrote this line?
> 
> Find my Stucky Art (Jessie Lucid)  
> [Instagram](https://www.instagram.com/jessielucidart/)  
> [Tumbler](lucidnancyboy.tumblr.com)
> 
> Big hugs to everyone!


	19. The Albatross

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m thrilled to finally have a new chapter for you, and the good news is the next one is already written too, so I’ll be getting back to a regular posting schedule. Yay! Huge hugs and love to my wonderful beta [Lorien](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lorien/pseuds/Lorien) who is the most kickass, generous, talented human being on the planet. Check out her gorgeous Stucky art here [drjezdzanyart](http://drjezdzany.tumblr.com/tagged/my-art/) . Also, thanks to [TheNerdAlert](https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Nerd_Alert/pseuds/The_Nerd_Alert) for getting my mind rolling in the cheeky cowboy direction (best inspiration ever)! 
> 
> The playlist for this chapter is divided in two parts, as Bucky and Steve are in very different head spaces. Listen on my YouTube channel [Ch19Playlist](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rJptK1NenY8&list=PLbGnycMfOsiBhdcieBqPhPsqau6TRdN1O) , and the track listing is in the end notes. Music is always critical to my writing but, for some reason, in this chapter it played an even more important role. Check it out if you like mood music and really want to get into the boy's brains.
> 
> Enjoy! :)

                                     

Blueberries. Bucky could feel the fucking spies stuck between his toes; their roundness stretching his skin to capacity, pulling the cells far enough apart to rip fissures in the webbing. It hurt, and he hated them; their shape, their color, their intent...their mission. It felt odd hovering in midair; flat on his back like he was resting directly on the stiff white sheet, but somehow _wasn’t_. He was high enough that the tips of his hair were scraping the sheet as his position wavered, the subtle motion completely out of his control. But the eyes...the eyes were more important... because they saw the truth. Bucky glanced down at them again and was instantly immersed in the pattern: toe, blueberry, toe, blueberry, toe, blueberry...eight purplish blue alien eyeballs tearing apart ten human toes. The spheres looked plump and juicy, and he couldn’t resist squeezing his toes together as hard as he could to pop every alien eyeball that’d had the nerve to stare at him! Feeling the pressure building beneath their skins until they exploded in thick, juicy bursts was so fucking satisfying, and the way their optic nerves oozed out along with their greyish white guts made Bucky want to crush a million more. He despised them...every single one of them...and his face was starting to crack from his scowl.

Sandpaper was being dragged between each one of his toes, but the scraping wasn’t something coarse or painful. Rather than grinding down his skin, it was... _warm_...the rough texture of a kitten’s pink tongue irritating the skin of a smiling cheek. If Bucky could stay here forever, floating with only the tips of his fingers brushing against the sheet and watching as Steve’s tongue licked and slurped up the blue juices oozing from the cracks between his toes, he would...but something wasn’t right. His entire face hurt from smiling so much and the corners couldn’t handle the pressure, ripping and splitting open as he grinned wider, and wider, and wider...and the tongue kept licking, diving deeper between each toe...forcing itself into the widening holes. Bucky tried to call out Steve’s name, but no sound came out...not even a squeak. There was nothing but the remnants of crushed berries clogging his esophagus and spilling out from both corners, and Bucky couldn’t close his mouth to stop them. Suddenly, Steve’s blue eyes weren’t Steve’s anymore! The light blue irises had morphed into a sadistic murky brown, and the blueberry juices dripping onto the sheet shifted to bright red as Brock Rumlow opened his mouth and bit Bucky’s pinky toe clean off…

“Bucky, baby...wake up…”

Drip...drip...a pristine sheet splattered with blue and red as Brock’s jaw chewed in slow motion. Drip...drip...as he bared his teeth to expose the remnants of blueberries stuck between the gaps...chewing, chewing, chewing on the rubbery flesh of Bucky’s toe…

“Sweetheart, ow, shit...Dammit!”

A weight landed hard on Bucky’s chest, which not only hurt, but knocked the wind out of him. When his eyes flew open, Steve was there, collapsed on his side with the blue cast jammed up against Bucky’s shoulder and his face smushed up like he was in pain. This was confusing for a very long list of reasons.

“You’re in the hospital.”

“Obviously I’m not,” Steve groaned, trying (and failing) to get himself off Bucky’s body.

“You look like a blueberry,” he heard himself mumble. “Half Veruca Salt, half smashed blueberry pie.”

“What?”

“Your face is the wrong color, and I don’t wanna squish you between my toes.” Steve’s cheek looked really awful. Bucky’s fingers itched to touch it.

“Bucky, are you awake?”

“I don’t know.”

Blinking a few times, maybe about a hundred times, Bucky tried to make sense of what the hell was happening. Steve had awkwardly rolled onto his back, landing on top of Bucky’s hips, which had allowed Bucky to take a much needed breath, but wasn’t doing much to relieve the crushing weight of his favorite muscular blond on his pelvic bone. Even with sufficient oxygen blasting around his bloodstream, things were still bafflingly unclear... _beyond_ baffling, actually. Words like ‘fucking confusing’, ‘fucking bewildering’, ‘fucking perplexing’, and, Bucky’s personal favorite, ‘fucking what the actual fucking fuck!?’ were all coming to mind. Seriously, it wasn’t an everyday occurrence to wake up from a fucked up nightmare to discover Steve Rogers rolling around on top of him like a giant turtle who was stuck upside-down in his shell (if turtles wore donut sweatshirts and taco pants). Bucky proceeded with the appropriate amount of bafflement. “You’re wearing my taco pants?”

“Your dad put them on me,” Turtle Steve said.

Okay. Bottom line. There was _no fucking way_ that Bucky was awake if he was stuck in any sort of scenario where his dad had dressed Turtle Steve in a patriotic donut and cartoon tacos in the wee hours of the night. _No. Fucking. Way._ It was more probable that Daenerys was gonna dramatically fly past Bucky’s bedroom window at any second, lookin’ all sexy and powerful on Drogon’s back as she commanded him to blast a vicious stream of fire across the neighbor’s rooftops. The odds were greater that the red eyed shark, who’d terrorized Bucky’s dreams for months (years) after he’d seen ‘Jaws’ for the first time, was gonna leap out of the mattress and attempt to swallow him in its massive jaws. It was more likely that Wiggling Steve was gonna metamorphosize into a giant cockroach and feast on the empty bags of chips underneath his bed. Bucky just had to hang in there long enough for Cockroach Steve to figure out how to flip himself back over onto his creepy segmented legs and start skittering around the floor. A few more ticks of the second hand would confirm that Real Steve was safely tucked underneath a scratchy blanket at The Brooklyn Hospital Center. Any second now, Bucky would have hard evidence that his brain was stuck in REM on some sort of whacked out surrealistic loop playing on overtime...

Any second now…

Waiting…

...

Well, shit.

Bucky wiggled his toes, making sure that there were ten. He counted (twice) before he felt reassured that his pinky toe was still attached and not, in fact, digesting in a pool of acid in Brock’s stomach. Then, and only then, did he feel safe enough to lift his head off the pillow (barely) to double check that a Brock shaped lump wasn’t hiding under the covers and waiting for the perfect opportunity to chomp off the rest of Bucky’s toes in one huge bite. Thankfully, there wasn’t a lump, just stars, but Bucky still couldn’t shake the disconcerting feeling that he was down there sharpening his teeth with a metal file, getting ready to gnaw the flesh off the bones until nothing was left below the knees. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

Bucky wiggled his toes _harder_ , until the arches of his feet cramped and the cobwebs finally started to clear. Steve came into focus as the nightmare was lost in the mysterious place where all dreams go to live; that peculiar spot in the brain where everything bizarre and frightening compresses itself down into nothing to hide from conscious thought, only to be remembered in technicolor snippets years later for no discernible reason at all. He wiggled and wiggled each toe, counting one to ten as the turtle flipped back onto its side triumphantly. Despite being wounded, the reptile managed to lay down calmly next to him on the bed. Bucky liked turtles. Steve was his Michelangelo… ‘cause of the art...and the pizza...

Ninja Turtles aside, there was still the _very_ confusing reality that Steve was actually here in the flesh. There was no denying that Bucky was wide awake (sing it Katy Perry), and his disturbingly black and blue boyfriend was implausibly lying next to him and struggling to pull up the star comforter with his right arm. It wasn’t going very well, so Bucky came in for the assist and carefully tucked it around Steve’s cute butt. Bucky also liked cute butts…’cause of the art...and the cuteness...but, butts aside (snort), he had to admit that, despite the laws of physics and the limitations of modern science, Steve _had_ successfully teleported from the hospital, ended up in Bucky’s excellent taco pants, and had crept into his room like a pervy cat burglar who was dead set on an evening of serious spooning. The question was: should Bucky be completely creeped out that a six-foot tall almost-man had climbed into his bed without him noticing, _or_ should he be overwhelmed by optimal levels of romance novel joy that a six-foot tall almost-man had defied space and time to climb into Bucky’s bed without him noticing? The verdict was still out.

“Steve,” Bucky whispered, staring at the disco ball while he let all ten toes find Steve’s under the covers. “Did you teleport here? Is Spock hiding in the closet? Did you dock The Enterprise on the roof? Because, honestly, I don’t think my house is strong enough to support that kinda weight. I mean, The Enterprise must weigh like a million, gazillion tons and there’s no way that Brooklyn building codes back in the day were anywhere close to the future’s 2259 standards. Considering the gravity, I’d say that the ceiling is gonna collapse at any second…”

“I love sleeping next to you,” Steve interrupted as his feet swallowed up Bucky’s blue and red ones in some sort of warm, protective foot cocoon. It felt _lovely_ (important note: that thought had manifested in a distinctly British accent, because words like ‘lovely’, ‘delightful’ and ‘marvelous’ should _always_ sound like tea and biscuits in the English countryside). Steve’s right hand did a sneaky little move and caressed Bucky’s hip ( _divine_ ), then the tip of his index finger slid just beneath the waist of Bucky’s peppermint polar bear pants ( _heavenly_ ), before he gave the cotton the slightest little _glorious_ tug. It was all so goddamn _lovely_ that Bucky wanted to roll end over end down the lush, green patchwork hills of Lancashire until he landed in the _bountiful_ gardens at the foot of Sizergh Castle (there’d been an 8th grade book report...with a powerpoint). The little tug from Steve’s finger wasn’t much, just enough to tighten the fabric the tiniest bit and make his presence known, but it warmed Bucky’s insides instantly. The heat zinged all the way down to all ten toes when the the finger moved up and down a fraction of an inch, caressing Bucky’s skin as Steve whispered, “God, Bucky, I love you so much.”

And the sound of those words? Well, they were more than something as amateur as _lovely_ . Coming from Steve’s lips, they were rose bushes grown in an elaborate maze, where he and Steve could run barefoot, laughing and leaping while a gaggle of white geese chased them, honking a joyful tune...wait, scratch the geese (bare feet + goose shit = ruined imagery). Attempt number two: where he and Steve could run barefoot, laughing and leaping as they chased one another until they were out of breath, collapsing in the center of the maze and kissing slowly as a sky full of colorful hot air floated overhead. A guy could get lost in there. Not really wanting to find the exit, like _ever_ , and Bucky was so tempted…damn, it would be so easy to roll over and snuggle up against Steve’s earnest face, but teleportation usually merited an explanation…

“Um, Stevie, that’s really nice and all, but…”

Instantly, Steve’s face dropped into a sad puppy frown, proving, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that Bucky was an asshole who didn’t deserve to spend a day with Steve in the English countryside.

Bucky reached up to comfort him, but couldn’t land on a spot that looked safe enough to touch, so his hand kinda ended up flapping around above his shoulder. “Shit, that’s not what I meant...I mean…” Bucky took a deep breath and stopped doing the weird bird thing, blurting out, “I’m just really confused right now.”

And...that made it even worse. Sad Puppy’s face melted into the deep lines of Old Yeller despair as he gasped, “Confused about loving me?”

“What?” Bucky flipped towards him way too fast and probably (definitely) squished Steve’s arm. Good job; make the poor guy feel like a kicked puppy _and_ break his other fucking wrist while he was at it. Fucking brilliant. Quickly putting his hand in the center of the donut on Steve’s chest, he tried to salvage what he could. “No, no, no, no, a thousand times no. I’m just really confused about…”

Bucky’s thoughts trailed off like his words, and he squeezed his eyes shut because in the broader scope of things, did it really matter that he was hopelessly confused by the rancid blueberries that were still clinging to the back of his throat? Did it matter that, despite his feet being surrounded by Steve’s cozy size twelves, Bucky could still feel Brock’s razor sharp teeth gnawing on his left big toe? Did it matter that his eyes still itched like a bitch, and that his vision was still blurry, from Tony’s mother fucking lily attack? Or, that Bucky could smell Pierce’s blood money polluting the water from a mile away, forcing him to instinctively circle the situation like the shark from his worst nightmares? Did it fucking matter that Bucky couldn’t stop thinking about renting a cop uniform for Halloween, adding a real gun for authenticity, and doing despicable things? Or, that he suddenly despised everyone named ‘Joe’? Did it mother fucking matter that he kept smelling Brock’s aftershave? That he could smell it right now?...…whatever…fuck it!...the list was endless.

Squeezing his eyes shut even tighter, he pictured the brutal bruises that were criss-crossing Steve’s entire back and ribs, remembering the way Steve’s blood had bubbled over Bucky’s fingertips, refusing to coagulate as it had poured out from his broken nose, and the way Steve had chosen to trust _Bucky_ with the precious picture of his mom. Tiny Stevie Rogers sweetly holding the hand of a beautiful young woman; a woman who’d loved him until she was dead. _Dead!_ None of Bucky’s weird shit was more important than the _real_ nightmare that Steve Rogers had been living in for years; one that had shattered his bones in reality! For christ’s sake, Pierce could have _killed_ Steve with that baseball bat! _Killed him!_ And here Bucky was, losing his mind over one sleazy prick touching his goddamn belt buckle!

When Bucky _finally_ turned his head to finish his fucking sentence, Steve’s eyes were super watery and he was breathing through his nose in short little puffs. Obviously, Bucky’d taken _way_ too long arguing with himself inside of his fucked up head. Kissing Steve’s forehead as fast as he could, he tried to fix the damage he’d done. “Never mind, Steve. Seriously, ignore me completely. Okay?”

“Bucky, I’d never ignore you.”

Swallowing the lump in his throat, Bucky spread out all five fingers in the center of the red, white, and blue sprinkles, pressing down to feel the heartbeat underneath. He knew that Steve was telling the truth...and that was the problem.

Bucky wanted to reach through the screen-printed frosting and touch Steve’s heart; like _touch it_ , touch it. A poke, a squeeze, maybe even gently slip his hand underneath and allow the muscle to beat against his palm. Yeah, it was gross and creepy, but the organ belonged to the beautiful, strong, and slightly stupid boy who had shockingly fallen in love with _him_ , and Bucky wanted to get as close to Steve as he possibly could. Why? Because everything about him was fucking magic. Squeezing the cotton up into a little mound in his fingers, Bucky made the hole of the donut disappear, leaving just the frosting. How the hell was it even possible for two people, who’d actively avoided one another for _years_ , to be so perfect together? What kind of spell causes dozens of bubble filled moments to materialize out of nowhere, just because you’re standing close to someone? Laughter, sappy mix tapes, spray paint wonders, the hazy deliciousness whenever they touched...all of it felt like a privilege, or maybe, if Bucky was being honest, an addiction.

A shitload of songs from all styles, decades, and genres of music compare the magic of love to getting totally wasted with a wide variety of kickass (and less kickass) substances. Justin Timberlake croons that he’s ‘just a j-j-j-junkie for your love’, while Rihanna discloses her fondness for party drugs by singing ‘As we moonshine and molly, feel the warmth, we’ll never die, we’re like diamonds in the sky’. Robert Palmer is ‘addicted to love’, Ke$ha (Bucky refused to delete the mental ‘$’) sings in her wonderfully trashy way about being a ‘lovesick crackhead’, and, swear to god, at least half The Beatles catalogue is about smokin’ pot, dropping acid, and god knows what else. Song after song, after song, comparing chemically altered states to falling in _love_ , being in _love_ , making _love_...love, love, love, love, love. Truth be told, Bucky’d always thought that the songwriters were being fucking lazy (with the exception of John and Paul), but, turns out, they’ve all been imparting the honest to goodness metaphorical truth! Even Ke$ha!

Tugging more of the fabric into his fist, a rush of blood surged up the back of Bucky’s neck...tingling and making his eyes go a little hazy...and all he was doing was thinking about which songs Steve might record on the next mixtape. Maybe the whole thing would be A$AP Rocky and LSD, The Stones and brown sugar, The Beatles strawberry fields forever, and Lou Reed’s ‘Heroin’? Actually, on second thought, scratch that last one. Bucky was pretty sure that Lou was singing about _actual_ heroin. An entire tape full of chemical love songs? That would be fucking amazing! Or, even better, maybe he and Steve could have an entire _life_ that felt like soaring above the stereotypical rainbow clouds! Bucky wanted to find out if his stomach would feel warm and heavy after he and Steve had dragged the wobbly card table up from the basement for the fifth year in a row, squeezing in between Natasha and their dad to shove turkey and mashed potatoes into their faces side by side. Bucky could almost smell the gravy as he touched his nose to Steve’s neck. Clint would spill a bottle of hard cider into Jody’s traditional sweet potato, marshmallow casserole, and Natasha would flick him on the ear and call him an ‘adorable klutz’. His dad would stand at the head of the squished together tables and deliver a wonderful Thanksgiving toast about family, soldiering on through hardship, and, most importantly, love. Was that tingly feeling in their future? What kind of buzz would Bucky get from going to the pound with Steve and picking out the ugliest mutt to take home to _their_ apartment? Would Bucky feel like dancing after they’d signed all the paperwork and clipped the pink leash to her collar; knowing that they’d saved the ugly (beautiful) dog from certain death? Would Bucky’s cheeks flush every time they argued about which one of them had to bundle up in a zillion layers, put the doggy sweater and doggy booties on Mollie, and drag their ass outside in the middle of a February blizzard to walk her? Would Steve buy Bucky a huge box of Godiva truffles for Valentine’s day; the rush of sugar inspiring them to dry hump on the couch? Would they swim together in college; fucking like animals after every meet to burn off the excess adrenaline? If love was a drug, then Bucky wanted to get high on all of it.

But the thing that he craved most of all, the thing that blueberries could destroy in an instant, was for Steve to keep loving him…

It was time to fucking step up. Steve needed him. _Him!_ For some crazy reason, Steve had chosen some punk ass kid from Brooklyn... who loved rousing games of mother fucking chubby bunny and who swore way too mother fucking much...and Bucky really wanted to live up to that...to be there for him. If Bucky failed, the wobbly card table would never leave the basement, Bucky would probably get a cat named Prozac, and Steve...well, Steve would probably get his own cat and name it Xanax. Bucky didn’t fucking know.

Pressing his forehead against Steve’s smooth right cheek and releasing his donut stranglehold, he stared at the way the dirt crammed deep underneath his fingernails stood out against the white frosting. It had infiltrated every nook and cranny, coloring his hangnails an ugly, dark brown and defining the wrinkles over his knuckles. He’d scrubbed and scrubbed in the shower last night, using Natasha’s nail brush, her poofy loofah, and the sharp end of one of her abandoned bobby pins to try to dig it all out, but the water had never run clear. But it was okay...it was...because the second that Steve grabbed Bucky’s hand and pulled it up to his lips, sucking the ring finger into his mouth and swirling his sandpaper tongue around the tip in a wet circle, Bucky understood. When _Steve_ looked at Bucky’s hands, the skin seemed clean, pure, loveable, and worthy of kisses. If Bucky mentioned the dirt and the decomposing pieces of worms, it would ruin everything.

He placed a tiny kiss on Steve’s earlobe and hummed, “I know you’d never ignore me, Stevie, my charm makes it impossible.”

“That’s true, but you said…”

“I have no idea what I said,” he interrupted, pulling his finger back enough to run it along the bottom of Steve’s lip. They were a little chapped and Bucky dug the texture. “I wasn’t awake yet, and I had this super crazy, messed up dream where those goddamn blueberries were still staring at me, but I could _never_ be confused about loving you.”

Fuck.

Bucky wanted to slam his head against the pillow or, more precisely, the wall. Why the hell had he said blueberries? He was just getting to the good part; where the little trail of saliva was stretching between Steve’s lip and his fingers. It was so damn hot, and fuck, fuck, fuck… There was no way that Steve had missed that…

Any second now…

The spit trail stretched out even longer, doubling the hotness, as Bucky waited…

And waited...

But nothing happened; except now Steve had a bunch of spit on his chin and a big goofy grin on his face when he said, “So you _do_ love me.”

Well, okay then. The crazy person could proceed as normal. Cue sappy comeback: “Stevie, I love you to the moon and back.”

“Babe.” Steve chuckled and rubbed his spitty chin in Bucky’s hair. “My mom used to read that book to me when I was five. You’ve gotta pick something else that’s doesn’t make me think about my Mickey Mouse night light and my mom tucking me in.”

“Mmm, lemme see. How about, I love you ‘til the cows come home?”

“So, if I become a dairy farmer, you won’t love me anymore?”

“Would you be wearing a cowboy hat at all times?” Bucky asked, because _Jake Gyllenhaal!_ Duh.

Steve pressed their lips together, and they shared one breath before he murmured, “Definitely.”

And god, did that turn Bucky right on. He was gonna add ‘sexy cowboy hat for Steve’ to his extensive Christmas list! “Well, if that’s the case, then I’ll love you despite the cows. But you’ve gotta fuck me like a prize stud while wearing only the hat and a pair of cowboy boots at least three times a week.”

“Oh, I’ll fuck you _seven_ days a week wearin’ my cowboy hat ‘n boots; bright and early before our annoying, old rooster even has the chance to crow.”

Bucky smiled, big and bright, because _damn_ , he really, really, really liked that scenario:

 

_Through the cracked pane of glass in their bedroom window, the waxing crescent moon was still visible near the western horizon. The farmhouse was old, and Steve kept insisting that the broken pieces ‘connected them to the house’s history’, or something deep and philosophical like that. Bucky pushed the patchwork quilt down below his armpits so he could roll further towards the window and really appreciate the changing sky in that magical moment right before the dawn. It was his favorite time of the day...not because of the fading stars, or the long shadow the old oak tree cast across their garden...but because of the way the creaky mattress dipped down right on cue. Fresh from the shower, Steve slowly climbed over the top of Bucky’s naked body, wearing nothing but his well worn, black cowboy hat and his beat up boots. When he got close enough to kiss Bucky’s cheek, he whispered, “Mornin’, darlin’, it’s time to start our day,” before wrapping his calloused hand around the back of Bucky’s neck._

 

Letting their tongues roll together, Bucky carefully pressed his hard dick against Steve’s hip, but was suddenly (and rudely) blasted in the face with a bright ass beam of light, Cyclops style. He sadly... _sooo sadly_ ...set Steve’s tongue free and squinted up at his shelf. There, the culprit revealed itself; sun from the window was nailing his badass pimp cup and bouncing colored light all over the fucking place; like his disco ball on acid (Bucky should write a song about that). It was actually kinda pretty... _blinding_...but pretty. The perfect atmosphere for making out and pretending that they were on their gay love farm in Idaho or Montana or somewhere cowboyish. He was just about to dive into Steve’s mouth again when... wait a minute…

If the Bucky The Pimp gems were getting hit with direct sunlight, that meant that it had to be at least ten...maybe eleven...on a _Thursday_ . The typical location for Bucky’s ass between ten something and eleven something o’clock’ish on a fucking _Thursday_ , was crammed into an uncomfortable desk in the back of the Espantyhose de la soul room, falling asleep as he doodled dicks in the margins of his conjugal visit verb notebook because he’d been up since the ass crack of dawn for swim practice. But apparently, on this special day, Bucky’s ass schedule had changed, and his gluteus maximus was thoroughly enjoying getting squeezed by the trapped hand of an (escaped?) hospital patient, while he fantasized about a ‘Brokeback Mountain’ paradise where Steve spent his days milking dairy cows in assless chaps.

It was kinda fucked up.

Instead of missing the plastic excitement of Eaton for awesome snow days, depressing sick days, or very unfortunate funeral days, Bucky’s dad had unbelievably made the executive decision to let Bucky skip school for ‘wounded boyfriend’ days. Okay, change that from ‘kinda’ fucked up, to _beyond_ fucked up (not about his dad, his dad was amazing), because the category of ‘wounded boyfriend’ was somehow a real life thing in Bucky’s shiny, new relationship. But the thing that took the gold medal for _massively_ fucked up was that the attendance secretary was already marking day number three onto Bucky’s permanent record.

Falling back onto the pillow, Bucky blurted, “I’m not doodling dicks all over my Espanoli-cannoli notes right now.”

Steve snorted, then tried to pull his hand out from under the booty. “Does Señora Lauter give you extra credit for that?”

“Only if I make ‘em real hairy,” Bucky started, repositioning his hips so Steve’s hand had no hope of escaping da booty. “She has a thing for Ron Jeremy or something...which I find oddly sexy. Not that she digs him, ‘cause yuck, but there’s something about young Ron Jeremy in a gold chain and a leather jacket that makes me wanna throw on some tight bell bottoms and…”

“Bucky...who the hell is Ron Jeremy?”

“Sorry, sorry. Too much seventies porn. My bad. Anyway, Clint told me that Señora Lauter even has a hedgehog as a pet, and that she got him a little gold hedgehog collar with a heart that says ‘Ron’.”

“What in god’s name are you talking about?” Steve chuckled, making another attempt at booty hand extraction before probing, “Hairy dicks, huh? I didn’t know you were an artist too!”

“Oh yeah, I’m up there with the masters. Give me a camera and I’ll photograph your glistening member just like Robert Mapplethorpe.” Bucky bent up his legs and threw a foot across his knee...one, two, three, four, five...all toes were present and accounted for. “You should draw another picture of me, Stevie. Dick side up this time! Then we can compare and contrast our cock art side by side.”

“A cock critique?” Steve yanked his hand free (dammit) and literally giggled. “I’ll accept _any_ challenge that gives me an excuse to stare at your gorgeous dick for an extended period of time.”

Bucky wrapped a hand around himself through his pajama pants and bit his bottom lip, moaning a little as he whispered, “You really think my dick is pretty?”

“Oh, sweetheart,” Steve drawled, cowboy style. “It’s the prettiest.”

A fizzy smile bubbled up and exploded all over Bucky’s face, because _that_ was why he fell in love with a jock named Steve. Simple as that. Wham, bam, thank you ma’am...case closed. Right here, right now, Bucky made the decision to give zero fucks about how Steve had managed to escape from the fourth floor of a hospital in the middle of the night and had mysteriously landed in his bed. Teleported after bribing Captain Kirk with a blowjob? Cool. Hitched a ride hanging off a low flying helicopter, dangling one handed from the skids as it buzzed the buildings? Groovy. Stole an ambulance with a drunk lady stuck in the back, driving it wildly through the streets of Brooklyn with the lights and sirens blaring? _Extra_ groovy. Bonus points if Steve’s horrible driving made the drunk lady puke. Bucky was obviously curious as hell, but the fact that Steve was _here_ and suddenly rubbing Bucky’s balls trumped the mountain of questions. Shoving all that shit on the back burner to simmer, Bucky took the time to stare at his stupidly, wonderful boyfriend in the disco ball, pimp cup sun.

Quick assessment? Steve looked like shit.

Dark purple and fuchsia bruises were spilling across the bridge of Steve’s nose and pooling around his eyes, which strongly suggested that the AWOL splint needed to be located and taped back on _immediately_ ...not in a few minutes, not after a relaxing cup of hot coco with cute baby marshmallows...like _right fucking now_ , because that mess didn’t look good at all! The stitches across Steve’s cheek were even worse. They were all oozy and reminded Bucky of the blood encrusted barbed wire that seemed to be heavily featured in every scene of The Walking Dead; you know, _after_ the zombies have been stuck to it for a few weeks. He’d been there when the fancy pants plastic surgeon had sewn Steve back together, so Bucky was one-hundred positive that ‘decaying zombie goo’ hadn’t been included in the very specific aftercare instructions for optimal scar-free healing. Steve was still gorgeous underneath all the horror and goop, but damn.

Ending Bucky’s ball-massage session (a good thing, since all the gentle squeezing had made him realize that he really had to piss), Steve _very_ slowly rolled onto his side and tried to adjust the position of his cast in the space between them. The epic amount of wincing, and not-so-subtle ‘shit, shit, ow, fuck, shit’ going on, suggested that he was sucking at it...hardcore.

Bucky blindly reached behind his back to grab another pillow for assist number two, but his hand landed on something much, much cooler. The soft belly of his fuzzy new friend, Little Panda, who he’d impulsively rescued from the gift shop last night. Little Panda had called to him, using his ultrasonic panda song to alert Bucky to his precise location. The mystical events that had led up to Bucky’s cosmic encounter with panda destiny had gone exactly like this:

  1. Bucky lost his shit and attacked Tony Stark with a vase of smelly ass lilies (to be fair, he was provoked).
  2. Bucky felt bad about fucking up the floor (not Tony) and crawled around with two rolls of toilet paper, trying (and failing) to mop up the ocean of flower water and obliterated pieces of histamine stimulating, stupid, fucking flowers.
  3. Jason the Nurse walked in on Bucky’s completely unsuccessful attempt to hide the evidence, and, in a desperate attempt to save himself from getting kicked out, Bucky crawled a few feet on his hands and knees towards Jason, making sure to move his body nice and seductively while powering up the sex stare to a subtle (yet effective) thirty-three percent.
  4. Bucky sat comfortably in the armchair (in his _not_ comfortable wet jeans), eating the delicious honey and oat granola bar that Nurse Jason had kindly given him, watching the janitor, who Nurse Jason had dialed up lickity split, _properly_ mopping up the ocean of flower water, obliterated flower petals, and the newly added mounds of disintegrating toilet paper. Oh, and Jason had given Bucky an itty bitty can of apple juice too, along with another sucker. This one had been green.
  5. His dad brought them pizza, which Bucky promptly spilled all over Steve’s hospital gown, cast, and IV line when he insisted on feeding his ‘sexy patient’.
  6. His dad did _not_ like Bucky calling Steve his ‘sexy patient’, _or_ the way that Nurse Jason kept coming in the room every three minutes. In response, he declared that Bucky ‘smelled like a wet sock’, ‘looked like a wet dog’, and had ‘outstayed his welcome’.
  7. On cue, Nurse Jason waltzed back in the room (again) to present Bucky with a can of Coke (proving that Bucky was, in fact, _very_ welcome) and holy shit, was that the final straw. Bucky barely managed to get in one last saucy kiss before his dad herded him out of the room like he was a freakin’ sheep, grumbling that he needed to ‘go home and get his rank ass in the shower’, ‘do some homework before you flunk out of school’, and ‘for god’s sake, stop flirting with adults to get what you want!’
  8. Bucky chugged the Coke (thank you Nurse Jason) and leaned back in the corner of the elevator, emo style, as they descended to the busy lobby. When the doors opened, Little Panda must have started to sing his high-frequency panda song, manipulating space and time to secure his fuzzy panda fate.



Bucky’d been trying really fucking hard to ignore the color of the walls, looking anywhere and everywhere that wasn’t painted with that ‘calming’ blue/green death paint as his dad had herded him towards the revolving doors. Then...bam!...out of nowhere, the panda’s face had caught his attention. It’s black, beady eyes had been peeking out from the very bottom corner of the gift shop window, and Bucky’d immediately gone Maverick and had hit the brakes so his dad’s jet had flown right past. Tom Cruise would have been so fucking proud, going so far as to let Bucky suit up in a Top Gun flight suit to take a ride on his _big jet_ . But back to the panda...back to the panda...honing in on his position, Bucky had adjusted his flight plan perfectly and had confirmed missile lock on its cute little panda face. He’d been surrounded by grey elephants with their trunks squished up against the glass, brown teddy bears with decidedly non gender neutral pink bows and plaid ties, and tan bunnies that were so damn fluffy that Bucky’d had a flashback to the time when he and Clint had dropped acid and watched that vintage Star Trek episode with the Troglobites? Tribbles? Twizzlers? Whatever, it had been a terrible, terrible decision, because Bucky had ended up under Clint’s bed screaming, ‘If they can’t see me, do I exist?’ for two hours straight, while Clint had painted all over his walls with Nutella, Miracle Whip, and toothpaste. Jody hadn’t been amused and after a completely overwhelming lecture, she’d made them scrub it off while they were still tripping. Bucky shivered just thinking about it. But _the point was_ , the lone panda bear had been smashed in half by a fat elephant on the very bottom shelf, and his face had been poking out like the poor thing was just trying to catch a mother fucking breath. Man, had Bucky related…

Spinning away from his dad with one NFL worthy, silent pivot, Bucky had galloped across the tiled floor in his unlaced boots, his damp jeans chafing his nuts as he’d expertly careened around a freaked out looking dude holding a new baby in a very big baby carrier thing. A fleeting thought had popped into Bucky’s brain: had _his_ mysterious Russian father looked that freaked out when he’d put baby Yakov Mikhailovich Bukhalo in his own baby carrier thing seventeen years ago? But then Bucky’d stumbled into a rack of magazines, losing critical Top Gun points as a flurry of US Weeklys had dropped to the floor, and the man, who’d probably been named Mikhail, had faded back into the past where he belonged.

Bucky had successfully rescued the panda from the stuffed animal mosh pit before his dad had even realized what hit him. Bucky’d peered between the overweight elephants and generic teddy bears at the man whose name he was proud to bear, watching through the plate glass window as Phil Barnes had feverishly apologized to the freaked out owner of the tiny human. God, Bucky and Natasha were so fucking lucky; the winners of a one in a gazillion lottery prize for the perfect dad. But even perfect dads got fucking pissed at their overly dramatic kids, so when Phil had turned and pointed at Bucky through the glass like he’d zeroed in on a rabid chimpanzee in the zoo, he’d instantly dropped to his knees and hidden behind a pile of the acid-flashback Triglycerides. He’d felt bad for ducking...at least for the two seconds it had taken for the rooftop memory to come flooding back to him…

 

_“I wanna shimmy down the hallway to my room, do a fabulous spin before I push open my door with a flourish, and_

_instantly smile like a big, sappy idiot because you’re already there, snuggled up like a cozy little panda in the star covered comforter.”_

_“A panda?”_

_“Yes, a cozy little panda. Shh, this is important.”_

 

Locking eyes with Little Panda had been straight up destiny. Abandoning his hiding spot, Bucky’d been marching towards the counter to make their bond official when stupid reality had smashed his panda dreams to smithereens. How? Well, he’d remembered the contents of his soggy pockets: three empty sucker wrappers (thanks, Nurse Jason), a red hair tie, a pink hair tie, a guitar pick, a folded up picture of Jared Leto shirtless that he’d ripped out of a magazine in the visitor’s lounge, and two dirty pennies. Sadly, you can’t buy a panda with Jared Leto’s nipples, so Bucky’d had to go full metal five-year old to make the panda transaction happen. If someone ever wanted to blackmail him, all they’d have to do was get their hands on the surveillance video and threaten to post that shit on the internet. The childish begging that Bucky had resorted to, in order to get his dad to whip out his Visa and pony up the nineteen-ninety-nine required to purchase a stuffed animal for a _slightly_ deranged high school senior, was primo extortion material. There had been whining, begging, more whining, Bucky waving Little Panda’s arms and making him say ‘don’t leave me here to die’, and even more epic whining. Whining squared.

The clerk, whose name-tag had identified her as ‘Sh’niya...How can I help?’, had been wildly amused; especially when Bucky had quipped, ‘Thank you for your name tag’s kind offer of assistance, Sh’niya, but I won’t be needing your helpful services this evening. Little Panda has already affirmed my true path to enlightenment’.

In sharp contrast to her wide grin, his dad had scrawled his signature on the screen, snatched the Panda of Destiny off the counter, and had made a bee-line for the exit. It had pained Bucky to see his dad dangling his fuzzy kidnapping victim upside-down from one foot. Bucky’d related to that too.

They’d driven home in silence, Little Panda belted safely against Bucky’s belly, and the second his dad had pulled the tiny Toyota into the garage next to Steve’s stupid, fucking, scraped up truck, Bucky had squeezed out the car door and had taken Little Panda directly to the bathroom, where he’d taken the unusual step of locking the door. While Little Panda had kept watch from his perch on top of the toilet, Bucky’d taken a very long, very hot shower to wash the mildew stench off his legs and scrub the nauseating smell of Brock’s thick aftershave off his neck. Even after pouring globs and globs of Natasha’s apple blossom body wash onto her poofy loofah over and over, scrubbing harder and harder until his skin had been red and stinging, Bucky had still smelled it...smelled _him_...and he’d only noticed that the water had turned ice cold when he hadn’t been able to feel his body. Thank god, Little Panda had been there when Bucky’d thrown back the Space Unicorn curtain. Otherwise, he might have let the freezing water spray onto his naked body until his feet had fucking fallen off.

Wrapped in his Spongebob towel, Bucky had peeked into his sister’s room and had requested a fresh order of comforting sibling cuddling, with a side of calming hair stroking, to help him fall asleep. She’d hugged him and, by default, had given Little Panda some love before she’d made a big show out of smelling his chest and squinting her eyes in apple blossom judgement. To be fair, he _had_ used three-quarters of the bottle and that shit was fucking expensive. Dragging her into his messy room and slamming the door, he’d thrown on his polar bear pants and had flopped onto his bed next to her. Of course, Natasha had stolen the best pillow for herself, the velvety one with the blue and black zebra stripes, but Bucky’d let it slide because she’d immediately started spiraling his hair into tiny, wet buns.

Things were a little foggy from there. All he knew for sure was that, at some point, they’d FaceTimed with Clint. He’d been wearing the grey Rancid t-shirt, that he’d reduced to a glorified bib with overzealous scissors, and leaning back against his sticker covered headboard. Sometime last year, Bucky had taped Miley Cyrus’ face right over Axl’s on the Guns N’ Roses sticker as a ‘joke’ (‘Wrecking Ball’ was the shit!) and her eyes had been peeking over Clint’s bare shoulder when he came on screen. Snorting had occurred. Oh, something he couldn’t forget? Clint’s hair had been pulled back super tight, like he was about to slip on a silky, red shirt and dance the tango with a rose in his mouth. Top knot? Sure. Cool viking braid? Yep. Loose man bun? Once in awhile. But he never, ever, ever pulled his hair back like a Latin lover. But Bucky hadn’t mentioned it. He’d been too captivated by Clint’s stories about high school normality to ask about it. Skinner and Tony arguing in the hall and getting so fired up about some project they’d been working on that the assistant principal had given them both detentions for ‘sciencing too aggressively’...awesome. Ezra showing up to school wearing a giant pair of Gucci sunglasses, a pair of tight running shorts, and an argyle sweater vest, high as fuck on MDMA (for whatever fucking reason) and trying to hug Clint repeatedly while he was trying to open his locker... _extra_ fucking awesome. The ridiculousness had made Bucky feel sleepy in a really good way.

The smooth motion of his sister’s hands looping his hair around and around, the comfort of Clint’s face (even with the Steven Seagal hair) on the computer screen, and the magical fur of Little Panda squished against Bucky’s nose had combined into a calming poppy potion that had lulled him to sleep…

The vague antiseptic smell of the hospital lingering in Little Panda’s fur was the last thing he remembered.

 

 

Now, when his fingers landed on Little Panda’s fuzzy face, Bucky chuckled and pulled him into view. Destiny was at play, and the time to unite the panda multiverse had arrived. Carefully, he lifted up Steve’s blue cast and then carefully placed it back down on top of his doppelgänger’s mushy belly.

“Hi, panda,” Bucky whispered, letting the tip of his nose touch Steve’s swollen one.

“Are you talking to me or the bear?”

" _You_ , dipshit. I mean, you’ve gotta admit ...it’s not exactly a stretch. You actually look like a highly evolved panda...if pandas had scary purple spots surrounding their eyes instead of cute black ones.” Bucky wanted to touch the discolored skin beneath Steve’s eyes to see if it was real, to poke at the place in the corner where red was morphing into fuchsia and blue, but it looked fucking painful. Instead, he twirled a strand of Steve’s blond hair around his finger, then pushed the tiny spiral out of his eyes. “Remember on the roof the other day, when I sappily declared that I wanted to wake up with you in my bed and serenade you with ‘I can’t feel my face when I’m with you’?

“Yeah…”

“Well, considering that you probably _can’t_ feel the puffed up parts of your face right now, I’ve decided that The Weeknd would definitely be a shitty choice for my sweet and happy morning sing-a-long.”

Steve chuckled and moved the extra half inch to lightly kiss Bucky’s lips. Not something with pressure, or even movement...just a touch...a confirmation that Steve was somehow here...in taco pants. “Are you happy I’m here, Buck?”

“Yeah, dork. I’m happy you’re here. Duh.”

“And you wanna sing me something sweet?”

“Also, duh.” Bucky sucked Steve’s bottom lip between his teeth, giving it a nice little nibble before he said, “But you’ve put me on the spot here, Stevie. I mean, the song has to be a good one…”

“You could sing something as idiotic as ‘It’s Raining Tacos’ and I’d find it romantic.”

Bucky pulled his face back a few inches and gave Steve the squishy eyebrows. “Did you break into my house just to steal my taco pants? Because you’re being a real weirdo with the taco shit.”

“Maybe, but only because I was hoping that you’d put extra sour cream on top.” Steve gave him a lopsided grin, and Bucky pulled back another half inch.

“Was that a taco come joke?”

“It was supposed to be, but in hindsight I think it was a bad move.”

“Yeah, I don’t have a taco...I have a _sausage_ , and _you_ have a _sausage_ .” Bucky helpfully grabbed his half hard cock, giving it a little shake for emphasis. “This could officially be deemed a low-key Sausage Fest. But if you wanna go back to _tacos_ …”

In response to Bucky’s accusatory squishy eyebrows, Steve’s shot up in the ‘oh shit’ configuration as he exclaimed, “Oh my god, Bucky, no! I don’t like tacos! I want you to squirt extra sour cream on my _dick_!”

Yeah. That happened.

Between Steve’s shellshocked face and the surprisingly awesome image of Bucky standing over Steve’s gloriously naked, spread eagle body, shooting stripes of extra thick come all over his hard cock and ripped abs, he couldn’t hold it in anymore. As Bucky cackled, he realized that he had to pee really, really, _really_ bad and he grabbed his dick for an entirely different reason. Poor Steve was turning bright pink, which was making the pink bruises look...extra pink? Strawberry Bubble Yum wrapped around a pink tongue pink? A pink flamingo painted on a pink wall pink? A pink pig covered with pink lipstick kisses pink? Whatever freaky analogy his brain was providing, it wasn’t even close to the insanity of pink blushing Steve with Alexander’s fucking pink handiwork slapped all over his face. Bucky had the serious urge to run to the kitchen and get Steve _all_ the ice packs. Frozen pea salvation take two. Interrupt Celine’s Vegas show for the ultimate ‘Titanic’ encore. But instead of loading up his arms with frozen bags of tater tots, corn, broccoli, and the infamous peas, Bucky made the wise decision to slide his hand into the taco pants to discover Steve’s glorious half-hard sausage. It was nice and warm.

Steve’s reaction was exactly what he’d been hoping for. Moaning, Steve instantly raised his hips to move inside of Bucky’s grip, which legit made his mouth water. But then Steve gasped, “Ow! Shit! Ow!”

Bucky froze. “Steve, I’m sorry, what did I…”

“It’s my ribs, but I don’t care...please.”

The very first time that Bucky had gotten to touch Steve Rogers hit him right in the chest, but Bucky didn’t loosen his hand. “This is like déjà vu, Stevie. I’d really like to give you a blowjob in my bed when you _aren’t_ wincing in pain.”

“I know,” he sighed. “I know...I’m sorry...but that’s all over now, baby. I promise. Can you just…” Steve pulsed his hips the slightest bit, and he could no longer be described as half-hard, which _damn_ ... _damn_ he was so hot, _damn_ his dick felt so good in Bucky’s hand, _damn_ Bucky was still kinda in awe that he got to touch Steve’s dick in the first place, _damn_ it was big, and _damn_ he really wanted to feel the head pressed against the back of his throat. His brain was officially glitching: dick, dick, dick, _damn, damn, damn,_ dick, dick, dick, etc.

Not one to argue with the power of the dick, dick, dick, Bucky let his hand do all the moving for Steve, whispering, “Okay, but you’ve gotta lie completely still.”

“I don’t think that’s possible…”

“Move a centimeter,” Bucky interrupted, “and my mouth closes for business.”

Steve blinked a few times at that, but the second Bucky scooched down enough to lift up the bottom of the sweatshirt and lick a circle around Steve’s bellybutton, the nature of the order was forgotten in favor of simply following.

“Hey, Stevie?” Bucky rubbed his nose down Steve’s happy trail, and did indeed feel happier.

“Hmm?”

“I don’t wanna hurt you, but I’d _really_ like to take off these pants. And my pants. And, actually, all the clothes. I haven’t gotten to touch you, to _really_ touch you when we weren’t fucked up, in almost a week and I really wanna feel your intoxicating skin.” Lifting his nose out of the happy, little hairs, Bucky snapped his head up at Steve. “That sounded like shit dialogue in a bad romance movie.”

“I like romance movies.” Steve raised his eyebrows, which was impressive with all the swelling, and gave Bucky a sweet smile. “And I _really_ like being naked with you. So how about this; before you wrap those gorgeous lips around me, help me stumble to the bathroom, dig me up some Extra Strength Tylenol, and feed me a bagel with cream cheese. Then you can take off every piece of clothing and spill a thousand romantic lines at me, while we do _very_ romantic things, _very, very_ slowly?”

“You have to pee too?”

Steve snorted. “I have to pee so bad!”

“Why didn’t you say anything!?”

“Why didn’t _you_ say anything?”

Bucky cracked up, carefully releasing Steve’s dick ( _damn, damn, damn_ ) before he flopped backwards on the mattress. The bouncy mistake was obvious when Steve grabbed at his ribs again. Fuck.

God, they were gonna have to go so slow. _Sloth_ slow. Did sloths fuck slow? Had their evolutionary path made them orgasm at very slow speed? Could Google answer that very legitimate scientific question? Bucky’d never attempted the slow motion orgasm, classifying himself as a creature who’d always embraced the fast and furious, but maybe he and Steve could discover the elusive, legendary, rolling, gentle, slow-mo big ‘O’ together? Could they pull it off? He had no fucking idea. But you can bet your sweet ass that Bucky was up to the challenge!

That is, _after_ they’d made it to the bathroom. Seriously, he was about to piss his pants!

*****

 

 

There were clusters of blisters on the soles of Steve’s feet; he could feel the fluid shifting and the skin pulling as he dug his toes into the sheets to gain more leverage. But he happily endured the pain, knowing that the damaged skin had carried him to this place. Sometimes broken bones, deep aches, and raw, ragged feet are badges of honor; especially if it means discovering that ‘becoming one with someone’ is more than an intangible myth. If the pain of walking for miles, in nothing but a pair of stolen socks, allows you to push yourself deeper into the person whose name is synonymous with the word ‘home’, then the holes are worth every bit of suffering. It had taken them several attempts to find a place where the weight of their shifting bodies wasn’t hurting Steve...where his ribs weren’t screaming, and his cheek wasn’t throbbing...but they’d found it. _God, had they found it._

Once they’d gotten rid of all the pesky clothes, Bucky had propped him up on his right side with at least four pillows, then had used his cow print blanket to swaddle the cast against Steve’s hip. Giggling, he’d given Steve a few ‘test pushes’ to ‘approximate the force his ass would exert on Steve’s dick, to make sure that the physics of fucking wasn’t gonna knock him backwards off the bed’. It had been funny, sweet, kind, and pure _Bucky_. While Bucky had made a few adjustments to the pillows, for ‘thrust stability’, Steve hadn’t been able to stop thinking about how blessed he was. Blessed to be alive. Blessed to be lying naked on a soft flannel sheet with annoying cracker crumbs hidden between the folds. Blessed that Bucky had crawled halfway inside the cabinet under the bathroom sink, wildly tossing out rolls of toilet paper, a can of Mr. Bubbles, and a pink box of tampons until he’d found a package of toothbrushes. Blessed that Steve had been given a bright red toothbrush to call his very own. Blessed that his boyfriend was silly enough to insist that they act like rabid dogs when they’d brushed their teeth side by side in the tiny mirror. Blessed that Bucky had paused once he’d finished solidifying his sex protection measures, and had spent five long minutes moving their lips together in perfect, gentle kisses.

Steve had never kissed anyone like that before. Not Sharon, not Peggy, not even _Bucky_ . There’d been something completely different about the speed, the subtleness of the motion, and the languid way their tongues had danced around one another while the faintest smiles bent up the corners of their lips. Everything about the kiss sounded like violins caressing a lavender piano melody, and the aroma had been intoxicating. When Steve had looped his right hand through Bucky’s tangled hair, a crown of freshly picked purple pansies, plum colored sweet alyssum, sprigs of goldenrod, and tiny white daisies materialized around his head; fall flowers woven together by Steve’s healed hands for The King of the Misfits. It was fitting, considering that the first time they’d met... _really met_...Bucky had been holding court on his secret rooftop kingdom; a whimsical king in pink sunglasses and a jaunty, jeweled crown. And now that Steve had fallen in love with his chaotic joy? Well, it only seemed right that he’d seen Bucky’s wild hair encircled by a crown of colorful blooms. Perhaps Bucky Barnes was destined to be his king.

Bucky had lightly rubbed their noses together before stretching out on his back, tucking one foot underneath Steve’s pillow and the other beneath his hip, allowing Steve to simply watch as he’d...jesus, the things he’d done with his fingers...the way he’d lifted up his hips so Steve could see _everything_. The trust was exquisite, and Steve had wanted to lick and suck, to touch and replace Bucky’s long fingers with his own...but there’d been something about watching too, and it had made Steve’s mouth water in anticipation.

Time had stretched out into spiraling ribbons when Bucky had carefully curled up next to him, the swirls defining the precise moment when the curve of Bucky’s back had lined up perfectly with Steve’s battered chest and stomach. Sliding his good arm underneath Bucky’s neck, Steve had immediately folded it across Bucky’s chest; pressing his fingertips into the tiny hairs to solidify their point of connection. His arm was the only part of his body that Steve could use to hold their bodies together, but at no point had he felt like it wasn’t enough. The words ‘I love you’ couldn’t possibly express how it had felt when Bucky’d arched backwards and had slowly slid himself onto Steve’s cock...but he said them anyway.

“I love you, Buck. Oh my god, you feel…” Steve didn’t know how to finish that sentence. The warmth of his body was...overwhelming.

“C’mon, Stevie,” Bucky moaned. “Show me. Show me how much you love me.”

Yeah...Steve could do that...if he could focus. But, god, the way Bucky exhaled every time Steve rolled his weight to push harder, and the blissful sounds that escaped Bucky’s mouth when Steve couldn’t go any deeper. The way they naturally paused to revel in who they’d become together. It was pure bliss. Yes, he could feel the blisters popping, but the motion of Bucky’s body as they found their pace erased all other irrelevant sensations. The only thing that mattered was the sweetness of Bucky’s moan when Steve’s hand wrapped around his throat; telling Bucky without leather or buckles that he _had_ him...that they were _together_ ...safe at _home_.

There are moments in life when you think that something couldn’t possibly get any better... but then it _does_...and you realize that if you were wrong once, you could be wrong again. Is there more beyond perfection? Can something awe inspiring become even more beautiful?

Steve could remember his mom kneeling in her Brooklyn bedroom, digging around in her hope chest to find an old, dog-eared issue of National Geographic. Somehow, the Sistine Chapel had come up in one of their long conversations about art...which, for a kid in fourth or fifth grade, had surprisingly happened at least once or twice a week...and she’d wanted to show him pictures of the Sistine Chapel restoration. When she’d finally found it underneath the old Christmas stockings, she’d cheered before falling backwards onto her butt and patting the rug to signal that Steve should do the same. First, she’d turned to the monochromatic pictures that they’d taken before the cleaning, where Adam, Eve, Noah, and The Serpent had been obscured by layers upon layers of candle smoke and soot; centuries leaving their own impressions on the stories of the past. Steve had touched the tip of his finger to the shiny page, exactly at the point where Adam had been stretching out his fingers to receive the gift of life from God Almighty, and he’d fully believed that God must have whispered in Michelangelo’s ear in order to achieve such perfection. But then, his mom had gotten a sly smile on her delicate face, whispering, ‘Get ready for me to blow your mind’, before she’d flipped the page. The instant the brilliant array of colors had spread across her lap; golds, blues, greens, reds, and pinks that the cleaning process had brought to the surface, Steve’s ten-year-old mind had realized his mistake. It couldn’t have been just whispers, or colorful dreams...no, the ceiling was so stunning that only _God himself_ could have brushed the pigment into the wet plaster...

And that had been Sarah Rogers lesson: on a winter day, when life had been as simple as treasures from a hope chest spread out on a threadbare rug, his mother had used a few pages in an old, dusty magazine to teach Steve that perfection _was_ capable of evolving into something greater...something glorious...something beyond description. But since that day, he’d never encountered another example.

Until now.   

As waves of ecstasy built in his stomach, strong enough to make his hands and feet tingle, Steve realized that this was it; a true pinnacle. It _couldn’t_ get any better than the softness of Bucky’s skin, the way their ankles were interlocked, or the way his breath caught every time Steve rolled into him. Every color in the room seemed amplified; the hues brightening to neons, and the edges of everything sharpening. Even if God himself intervened, Steve could _never_ love anyone more than he loved Bucky Barnes in this moment. And if he was wrong...if his love for this glorious boy could become impossibly _more_...well, Steve supposed that was why lovers ended up with the same last name...

Smiling against Bucky’s chocolate curls, Steve murmured, “You’re a work of art.”

“Stevie, I’ve never felt…” A full body shiver ran up Bucky’s spine as he arched his body further, moaning long and deep. “I didn’t know it could feel…” His words trailed off as Steve kept up his slow pace; sliding and squeezing, arching and flexing, kissing and nibbling the back of Bucky’s neck.

“Mmm, do you feel good, baby?” The endorphins had to be kicking in, because nothing hurt. _Nothing_.

Bucky didn’t answer with words, instead guiding Steve’s hand up to his mouth where he sucked two of Steve’s fingers between his lips. And wow, that was more than enough. Seriously, the way that Bucky’s tongue was swirling around... _that_ was Michelangelo’s paintbrush...and it was gonna make Steve come.

Sunlight was bouncing colors and shapes wildly off of the shiny things in the room; painting a kaleidoscope of light all over their joined bodies. Bucky’s ridiculous, gold glitter guitar was sparkling in all of it’s David Bowie glory, shooting tiny pinpricks of light onto the walls. The disco ball was even more beautiful in the daylight; its mirrors making the sunshine dance across Bucky’s ass and over the mesmerizing curve of his thighs. But Steve’s favorite part was the brilliant white rectangle illuminating Bucky’s left shoulder. The vintage walkman, that he’d offered to Bucky with so much hope, was sitting on the messy desk, and the plastic door was catching the light just right and bouncing the shape back onto his tan skin; a reminder that _Bucky_ was the brightest thing in the room. Tucking his chin over Bucky’s shoulder, Steve tried to memorize everything.

“Baby, you’re so beautiful, god…” Steve couldn’t help himself. He knew he was probably screwing up his ribs and his stupid arm, but he pulled the cast out of Bucky’s blanket sling and used it to hook that delicious thigh and pull it up. “Hold your leg here, Buck. Help me, oh god…”

“Stevie, you shouldn’t, mmm…”

The angle let Steve move, and damn if that didn’t make the waves of pleasure that were running through his entire body multiply by a thousand. “I know baby, it’s okay. I wanna make you come so hard, sweetheart. I just wanna feel you...please.”

Bucky listened, locking his hand behind his knee, so Steve could sink down just enough to make sure that they both felt _everything_ , and it felt so fucking good.

There was a sound to it: a slow beat reverberating from the largest timpani, a callused finger tugging on the deepest string of an upright bass, a lazy river full of mysterious, muddy water in the deep south, meandering its way past the mangrove trees as Bucky slid back and paused; a squeeze, an extra pulse, a satiated sigh before the motion of the next measure started its song. It was intoxicating, and by far the most intimate sexual experience that they’d shared together.

Their first time had been amazing; losing their virginity, candy necklaces, glowing bracelets, the feeling of being inside someone for the first time...but they’d been really high and substantially drunk. That hadn’t made it any less special, it had been a part of it; the wildness, the risk, the newness, the sense of taboo, and the rush of endorphins had created a high of their very own. But still, the memory was fuzzy around the edges; the chemicals eating away at the clarity. The second time at the hotel had been amazing too...but there’d been something dark hovering in the corner; worry, concern, and the evidence of another man’s hand marring Bucky’s face. No matter how much wonder Steve had felt watching Bucky riding his cock for the first time...no matter how close they’d become that morning...the handprint had been trespassing. Then, there’d been Steve’s epic failure with the collar, which had been straight up bad. Not the sex. The sex had been crazy good, but jesus...the morning after? Well, the morning after had been more than a little bit crowded. But _this_ ? Right now? Steve knew with absolute certainty that there wouldn’t be any regrets about _this_ . The curve of Bucky’s ass rubbing against Steve’s hips in slow motion...the scent of apples escaping from Bucky’s hair...and the beauty of making one another feel _so damn good_. All of it made Steve appreciate this for what it was.

Fucking him a little bit faster, Steve licked a circle around the jut of Bucky’s vertebra and gasped, “I’m so in love with you. There aren’t words to tell you how much, Buck.”

Even though Steve was a fucking mess...broken, beat down, homeless...he’d never felt so free. Smiling, he spread his palm wide over Bucky’s sternum and pulled them even closer together, the sweat dripping between their bodies. Everything was out in the open. He didn’t have to hide anything from anyone anymore. Feeling the orgasm building in his stomach, the word ‘transcendent’ filled Steve’s mind as he moaned, “God, baby. I love you so much.”

Bucky stilled, using his own hand to reach back and grab onto Steve’s ass and hold him inside. “This feels, I can’t, I can’t...I love you too...I love you too, and, oh god, you’re gonna make me come. Stevie…”

There was enough give in the mattress for Steve to push deeper...deeper than he ever thought he could... and that was all it took. As soon as his hips rolled forward, Bucky shuddered from head to toe and came untouched into the sheets. And jesus, the sight of the ribbons bending in slow arcs across the bed made Steve’s orgasm rush up from the bottoms of his blistered feet. Pulsing inside of Bucky, Steve felt dizzy from the power of it; apples and stars, panda bears and freedom, and Bucky panting beneath him...Steve had never been so happy.

Neither of them moved as Steve whispered what his mother had taught him, dressed in her sunshine yellow dress with her tiny, pink, pearlescent toes. “You’re my home, Bucky. It should be impossible to love someone as much as I love you, but it’s real. Thank you, baby. You’re wonderful, and...just...thank you.”

“Will you stay inside of me? Just for a little while? Until I fall back asleep?” Bucky said it quietly, almost like he was afraid to ask.

“Of course, I will. Buck, are you okay? Talk to me, sweetheart.”

“Da. I love you too, Stevie.” Bucky already sounded half asleep; not like he was under, but like he was floating on a post-orgasmic cloud. “If you stay, maybe I won’t dream...maybe they won’t see me…”

“What?” Steve asked. But there was no response; only the sound of Bucky’s even breathing blowing across the sheets.

Using his broken arm to haul the star comforter back over top of them, Steve tucked it around them as best as he could, then watched the room change as the sun shifted lower. It crept across their naked bodies, warming them piece by piece until Steve felt his eyes getting heavy. Behind his lids, he discovered a white albatross with its wings spread wide so that it could hover on a lazy air current under a cerulean blue sky. There were no clouds, and the choppy waves were crashing against the powdery sand with no sound. He couldn’t hear anything or see anyone as he gazed back and forth along the empty beach. There was only the silent albatross and Steve’s ten toes sinking deep into the summertime sand.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! I love, love, love comments and kudos with all my heart, so if you wanna chat about the emotional rollercoaster of Steve and Bucky...and Clint...and everyone...throw a comment my way. Also, answer this chapter’s trivia questions in the comments and I’ll send you virtual goodies & mad respect!
> 
> TRIVIA  
> 1\. What book am I referencing when I said that Steve was going to transform into a cockroach and skitter around the floor?  
> 2\. What children’s book includes the line “I love you to the moon and back”? (hint: it has bunnies)  
> 3\. Why would the teacher who ‘liked’ Ron Jeremy have a hedgehog as a pet?
> 
> MOOD MUSIC: [Quackit homepage](<a%20href=)">Ch19Playlist  
> Bucky POV  
> *Trent Reznor & Atticus Ross- What Comes Back  
> *Son Lux- Weapons IV (Nico Muhly Remix)  
> *Queens of the Stone Age- I Appear Missing  
> *Son Lux- TEAR, part 1  
> *The Weeknd- Shameless  
> *Butthole Surfers- Pepper  
> *Free- Mr. Big (live at Sunderland/1970)
> 
> Steve POV  
> *Mick McAuley & Winifred Horan- To Make You Feel My Love  
> *Sufjan Stevens- To Be Alone With You  
> *My Morning Jacket- Touch Me I’m Going to Scream, part 2  
> *Pyramid- Cole’s Memories
> 
> Find my Stucky Art on Instagram & Tumblr
> 
>  
> 
> [JessieLucidArtInstagram](https://www.instagram.com/jessielucidart/)  
> [lucidnancyboyTumblr](https://lucidnancyboy.tumblr.com)
> 
>  
> 
> Big hugs to everyone!!!!!!!!! XOXO


	20. Purple Rain

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sending the biggest hugs to my fantastic beta [Lorien](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lorien/pseuds/Lorien) who laughs at my jokes, puts up with my shitty memory, and makes me a better writer. Please send some love her way by checking out her gorgeous Stucky art here [drjezdzanyart](https://drjezdzanyart.tumblr.com)
> 
> You can find my mood music playlist here [JessieLucidYouTube](https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCjADIMzQjvmnAs-nGoSG0JQ?view_as=public) I’ve listed the songs and the specific POVs that they inspired in the end notes. This chapter I climbed inside the minds of four different characters, so the music played a big part in bringing them to life.
> 
> I do have one assignment for you. To get the full effect of a critical scene between Clint and Bucky, cue up Prince’s “Purple Rain” and hit play when Clint mentions it. I made myself cry with this one, folks. Hugs in advance!

                                                          

 

At precisely 5:31 pm, a black Mercedes stretch limo pulled up in front of Bucky’s modest house and released the proverbial wolves. The pack was led by the person who currently occupied the number one slot on Bucky’s shit list...well, maybe number two after fucking Pierce...but Tony Stark’s name was right up there in bold letters and highlighted in red. And here he was, the ‘brains’ behind Steve’s stupid-ass plan, strutting across the leaf covered sidewalk in a fucking navy blue henley (that probably cost two grand), a pair of grey pants with black pinstripes (at least three k), blue tinted sunglasses (at least eight-hundred), and a mother fucking black vest! Who the hell wears vests in the twenty-first century? Mr. Stupid Vest was being trailed by three very serious looking lawyers in matching monochromatic gazillion dollar blue suits with matching black leather briefcases. Bucky could tell they were lawyers because they looked like total pricks. Simple as that. All three were squinting up at Bucky’s front door like being in close proximity to the Barnes’ Middle Class Virus was gonna infect them and make their investment portfolios bottom out.

But the thing that really got him...the thing that made Bucky press his nose right up against the kitchen window so that his breath fogged up the glass...was when _Clint_ climbed out of the limo to round out the pack. That red carpet arrival made absolutely zero sense. Stupid blue henley Stark, monochromatic blue lawyer #1, monochromatic blue lawyer #2, monochromatic blue lawyer #3, and Clint, who, while definitely _not_ monochromatic, _was_ kinda blue. Seriously, his hair was like seventeen blue Crayola crayons blowing around in the fucking October wind. Squinting at the very unfortunate series of events unfolding on the sidewalk, Bucky muttered, “What the fuck?”

“I texted him.” Steve was leaning back in his chair and staring across the kitchen table at Bucky like he was bat shit crazy. “But I don’t know why he’s here already. Tony said they were coming at seven.”

Bucky’s instant reaction to Steve’s nonchalant admission that he’d ‘texted him’? “What the fuck, Steve?”

“What do you mean ‘what the fuck’? You refused to finish my foot rub until I added ‘asshole’ at the end of the text.”

Instead of staring out the window at the plague of lawyers swarming the front stoop, Steve kept right on staring at Bucky like he should _definitely_ know what the fuck he was talking about. Bucky didn’t.

“Baby, hey.” Steve leaned forward like he was gonna touch Bucky’s shoulder, but apparently he’d forgotten about the giant cast on his arm and the crippling pain that accompanied it. His face fell as soon as his purple fingertips got within a few inches of Bucky, then he carefully lowered it back down next to his plate in defeat. Yeah, no more comforting touches from Steve’s left side...six weeks of right handed hand jobs, right handed swimming (oh, that’s right, _no_ swimming), right handed...whatever. Bucky wanted to punch Tony in the face and play dominos with the lawyers. One good hit in the middle of Stupid Vest’s chest and down they’d all go, one by one, until they landed on Clint...Clint, who had absolutely no reason to be in that limo.

Exhaling heavily on the glass, Bucky drew a heart in the middle of the fog and wrote ‘S + B’ in the center. Lawyers. Limited time frame to seal the deal. Tony’s an asshole. Seven o’clock. Foot rub. Cupcakes. A heart in the middle of the fog...a focus to ground him...at least some of it was there…

He should have told Steve that something was wrong, but instead he chose the much less upsetting option from his multiple choice menu of crazy. “Half of Clint’s hair is blue.”

There was a very vague memory of Natasha saying something about re-dying the ends of Clint’s hair blue, but this was over _six inches_ , and since his hair had been weirdly pulled back when they’d FaceTimed last night...wait…

“Yeah, Buck, I know. Remember, Sam texted me that Clint looked like a deranged version of Cookie Monster?”

          _...Cookie monster with his brains blown out in the food court…_

A breeze came out of nowhere and blew a flurry of fall leaves past Clint’s feet, a few raising up to bounce off the knees of his tattered jeans. With the black metal of the limo gleaming behind him, Clint strolled over and leaned against the four feet of rusted iron fence that had been inexplicably impaled in the sidewalk somewhere before the dawn of time. Then he swung his stupid blue hair into his face; the color popping against the bright yellow of his shirt.

Every time that Bucky looked at that fence his nuts hurt, like his ball sacks contained their own little brains squeezed in there next to the sperm to help them remember past traumatic events. He’d almost taken out his left nut trying to jump over that fucking fence when he was fourteen. Clint had, of course, dared him to do it; the promise of a king sized Milky Way bar on the line as Bucky’d run full speed towards the metal bars. The crotch of his pants had snagged on the final post and he’d violently flipped his stupid ass upside-down, leaving him hanging there for Clint (and a legion of passersby) to laugh hysterically at his misfortune. His pants had ripped a half inch at a time, dropping Bucky lower and lower as Clint had laughed like a mother fucker for a full three minutes. When the asshole had _finally_ had the decency to pluck Bucky’s tender balls off the railing and rescue his pathetic ass, Bucky’d been left with a six inch rip in his crotch, a set of blue balls acquired in the least fun way possible, and a lifelong aversion for that fence. Bucky’d received his king sized Milky Way, plus a Three Musketeers, _and_ a two liter bottle of Coke because Clint had felt bad...or something. But the point was, Clint had stood in that exact spot a million times since, leaning back and smoking, leaning back and laughing, leaning back and grabbing his nuts as a not-so-subtle reminder of the day the fence had almost claimed Bucky’s berries...and never once had his hair been _blue_.

Steve’s right hand landed on Bucky’s shoulder as the doorbell started chiming. His grip felt strong (it really did) and was almost tight enough to hurt. Bucky blew out another puff of hot air to make the heart reappear on the glass, then closed one eye to look through the letters. Clint’s hair really was the same color as Cookie Monster.

“We’ve gotta put some clothes on, Bucky. C’mon.”

Tugging his obscenely skinny grey jeans up over his ass, Clint squinted up at the porch while the dead leaves rose up in a spiral around him. Oddly, the yellow Foo Fighters shirt, with Dave Grohl’s bearded silhouette stamped on the front, matched the fall leaves perfectly. It was weird. Cosmic or some shit. Steve would probably call it ‘artistic’ and draw it in his sketchbook...if he still had a sketchbook (which he didn’t). Bucky was one-hundred-percent positive that beardy Dave Grohl had never, ever made an appearance outside of Clint’s apartment before this fateful moment, because the shirt was fucking bright yellow! Nothing subtle about it. Big Bird, banana, what else was super yellow? Why the hell could he only think of _two_ yellow things!? Whatever, it wasn’t exactly Clint’s style. Clint was more into punk rock grey, taste of goth black, and maybe a little shredded denim if he was feelin’ feisty on the weekend. Bright yellow like a school bus (Bam! Three yellow things!)? Well, that just wasn’t his regular jam.

Pressing his forehead against the glass, Bucky rubbed it back and forth to make his skin squeak a little, and he could almost hear the sounds of the opening band blasting down the corridor of the arena. Skinner, Daisy, Clint, and Bucky had been staring up at the wall of overpriced t-shirts, contemplating if it was worth it to pay almost fifty bucks for a concert tee when they could buy fifty slightly smelly retro shirts from Sal’s for the same price. Bucky’d made it his personal mission to whine, pester, and peer pressure Clint into ‘branching out’ and getting ‘something different for a change’. The shirt was ugly as fuck, but Bucky could be _very_ persuasive when he put his mind to it, and something about the idea of Clint in a primary yellow shirt had turned him on...or made him laugh. Probably both. Skinner’d shelled out seventy-five bucks (richy rich) for a sweet grey hoodie, then had bought Daisy a cute white tank top and a sticker for the reasonable price of thirty-two hard earned trust fund dollars. So much for ‘corporations sucking’ or whatever Kurt Cobain had scrawled on his shirt when he’d graced the cover of Rolling Stone magazine. Dave G. was making big bank...corporate and proud. In the end, Clint had pulled his chain wallet out of his super tight black jeans to fork over forty-five _actually_ hard-earned dollars for an obnoxious shirt that he only wore when he was watching Netflix or jerking off. So, why the hell was he wearing it now?

“I don’t wanna put on any clothes, Stevie. I wanna stay here and eat the rest of our burritos.”

The doorbell was ringing non-stop, getting louder and louder with each repetition, and it sounded like a fucking air raid siren inside his head.

“Buck, I really need you for this. Sweetheart, c’mon.”

Steve sounded super earnest, like answering the door was the most important thing in the world. Like if he ignored the doorbell, the world would explode into a billion pieces. Like sitting his ass back down and finishing his delicious burrito would result in genocide. Bucky really wanted to finish his burrito, the ratio of beans to wrap was superior and his tummy had been enjoying it very much, thank you. But the doorbell kept ringing, and ringing, and ringing...and Mr. Anderson, Mr. Anderson, and Mr. Anderson were starting to look impatient. Were they gonna start multiplying? An endless line of lawyers disappearing down the block and enslaving all five boroughs? Would the government blame Steve? He was the one who’d ignored the fucking doorbell, after all.

Pressing his forehead harder against the glass, Bucky whispered, “Stevie, do you think that Neo is gonna show up to save the day?”

A loud screech echoed across the kitchen as Steve shoved his chair out of the way. The half-eaten burrito jumped off his plate like it was taking a wild ride on a Mexican trampoline when Steve’s thighs hit the table, and all Bucky could think of was Nacho Libre. Steve (not Jack Black in tights) sighed. “Bucky, I’ve gotta answer that.”

Looking down at his beloved burrito, Bucky couldn’t remember chewing any of the missing bites. There were teeth marks, half the thing was gone, and his napkin was covered in bean splatter...all evidence of bean burrito consumption, but for the life of him, he couldn’t remember taking a single bite. The conspiracy was real. Wiggling his belly around, Bucky could feel it in there, digesting and shit, but it could have teleported into his stomach for all he knew. Teleportation seemed to be the new thing around the homestead, so anything was possible. It was a little sad though; burritos were usually something that Bucky remembered in great detail.

“Yep. I’m right behind you,” Bucky muttered absently, making no move to _actually_ be right behind Steve. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Banana Clint kicking at a pile of dead leaves as he lit up a big ol’ joint. Dead leaves and the dirty ground. Jack White (also not Jack Black in tights) would approve. Thick smoke poured out of Clint’s lips and rose into the air with his cosmically coordinated leaves, and it looked _delicious_ ; like the taste of a grungy Detroit alley behind the infamous Hotel Yorba.

Suddenly, Tony leaned over the railing and tapped on the glass right in front of Bucky’s face like he was a fucking goldfish stuck in a pet store tank...and the doorbell kept ringing and ringing and ringing...

Something about Tony’s obnoxious face made Bucky snap out of whatever D-Town fantasy he’d been stuck in, leaving Jack and his overly cool guitar and Meg and her shitty drums in the dust as he yelled, “Steve, don’t answer it! If you take the red pill you can never go back!” Keeping his eyes locked with Tony’s, Bucky sneered with only inches between them. “Not everyone who takes the red pill turns out like Neo!”

Behind him, Bucky could hear Steve frantically shoving around all the shit on the coat rack; four hooks for three people with _way_ too much outerwear. Seriously, Bucky owned at least twenty vintage leather jackets, and his sister was a sucker for a good bomber. Without thinking, he licked a long stripe across the glass in front of Tony’s face, then flipped him off, turning around just in time to see Steve attempting to pull Bucky’s blue and white striped hoodie over his cast (key word: _attempting_ ).

“Shit, shit, shit, Bucky, this won’t fit!”

“Your outfit already looks fine, Steve. There’s no need to over-accessorize.”

“I’m wearing shorts and bunny slippers!”

“And bandages. Don’t forget those. Truly, Stevie, I worked really hard rewrapping those after our delightful shower, and I think that they add a lot of personality to your ensemble. Heidi Klum would approve.” Bucky grinned at him, but Steve definitely did _not_ grin back as he kept trying to shove his very fat cast into the very small arm hole. “You need to use more lube. You know that’s the only way to _really_ get it in there.”

Steve rolled his eyes as his hand popped out the hole, then he kicked off the scary bunny slippers that Bucky’d so lovingly placed on his feet. As their fuzzy faces flipped end over end and landed in the dusty corner with the dust bunnies, Bucky could feel the cobwebs spreading across his hair. And the doorbell... kept...fucking...ringing!

Closing his eyes, Bucky tapped his heels three times and pictured Glenda the Good Witch: the poofy white dress, the cascading bubbles, the yellow brick road... the whole supernatural, red sequined shebang. Please, Glenda, wave your sparkling wand and send Steve and I back to Kansas...no, scratch that...Kansas would be boring as fuck. No, Bucky wished for something more local with way less corn. Please, Glenda, whip up a little tornado and send me and Steve to the couch in the living room to snuggle like pandas with no lawyers in sight. He also wished that Tony Stark was trapped in a fucking cave somewhere, but that was beside the point. Tapping three more times for good measure, Bucky wished that Clint was chillin’ next to them in his deconstructed grey ‘Misfits’ shirt with his purple tips, and that the three of them were passing a delicious joint back and forth while they binge watched old episodes of ‘Supernatural’. Six feet in a row propped up on the coffee table...twenty-nine toes...Bucky jerked his head back to the window, and all three Mr. Andersons sneered up at him...their dark hair slicked back with heavy pomade, the blue suits pulled tightly across wiry muscles, the smell of their aftershave mixing with the pot smoke, and his hand… Brock’s hand…

“Hey, sunshine. You look like you could use a hit.”

“What?” Bucky twisted around and stumbled backwards, landing hard against the refrigerator and knocking a handful of magnets onto the floor. They fell...one, two, three, four...he thought there were five. Where was his fifth toe?

“Woah,” Clint gasped, as he caught hold of Bucky’s waist. “What the…?”

“Don’t answer the door.”

“Bucky, baby, look at me _right fucking now_.”

Shaking his head, Bucky tried, he did, but he hadn’t dyed Clint’s hair and they were peeking out at him! “Your hair is blue!”

Suddenly, there was a chair beneath him, a joint in his hand, and smoke escaping from his nostrils that Bucky had no memory of inhaling.

“You really wanna go in there?” Clint was tensely sitting across from him at the table, shoving the rest of Steve’s burrito in his mouth. Steve didn’t get to finish his burrito...and Bucky had no fucking idea what was going on...but he could hear voices coming from the living room; monotones emanating from monochromatic blue suits. A big glob of beans fell onto the checkered tablecloth as Clint mumbled, “I think Steve would understand if you chilled in here with me. This is some serious shit, and you just freaked out about the color of my hair.”

“Steve needs me.”

“For fuck’s sake, Bucky. Go upstairs and relax. Climb into bed. I’ll make sure that Tony Stark gets the hell out of your house, and then I’ll bring you up some ice cream. Steve’s a big boy. He can handle himself. And your dad and Nat are in there with him…”

His dad was home? Natasha was supposed to be at dance until six. Bucky blinked four times before the red numbers on the microwave really registered…

6:13

Time. A best friend with the wrong colored hair. A thick glob of cold beans in the middle of a red checker. A painting of a daisy that seemed like it had been hanging in the kitchen forever. A handprint that Bucky could still feel burning his cheek. Steve’s wrist wobbling in the wrong direction. The cold floor as TJ knelt in front of his face. All of it was jumbled together in a timeline that made no sense. A little gasp escaped his throat as the truth hit him right in the gut: Brock Rumlow had shoved the red pill so far down his fucking throat that Bucky didn’t even know what was real anymore. He was gonna be sick.

Swallowing, Bucky tried to stand up. What other choice did he have? _Steve Rogers_ was real... he could hear the low hum of his voice floating down the hallway through the kitchen door. Counting on his fingers as he got his bearings, Bucky ran the things that he knew were absolute truths through his mind:

 

  1. The feeling of Steve kissing his way up his naked back while Bucky’d professionally manned the microwave for burrito time.
  2. Steve lifting Bucky into the air at the beach and spinning him around like a sappy picture on a Hallmark card, until they’d felt dizzy enough to fall into the surf.
  3. The angry blisters on Steve’s feet from stupidly walking through the not-exactly-safe Brooklyn streets in the middle of the night to get to Bucky.
  4. Steve’s perfect mixtape.
  5. The slow way that Steve had made Bucky come this morning.
  6. Steve breaking Brock’s nose with a musical crunch.
  7. Colorful lines spray painted all over the dirty concrete under the bridge.
  8. Bones snapped in half in order to escape that horrible prison.



 

As the clock switched to 6:14, signifying that he’d managed to exist for a full minute of reality, Bucky counted number nine: it was real every single time that Steve said ‘I love you’.

“I’m not leaving him.”

“You’re not leaving him in the living room?” Clint had the nerve to lean across the table and grab Bucky’s elbow. “Dude, I’m worried about…”

“He needs me!” Bucky screamed, kicking the chair over backwards. “I’m not going anywhere!”

The voices in the other room stopped, and Bucky realized that he’d shouted. Squeezing his eyes shut he tried not to swallow; not a red pill, not a blue pill, not ice cream, or spying fruit...he tried to spit everything out on the floor...but it all slid down Bucky’s throat in one giant lump.

Funny how something can choke you, blocking your windpipe and making your face turn blue, even when it’s made of imperceptible nightmares. Bucky could already feel it kicking around inside of him with the teleported burrito, punching holes in his stomach to let the poison slowly filter into his blood, but there was nothing he could do about it now.

Straightening his shoulders, Bucky turned his back on the clock and marched down the hall towards the only thing in his life that felt real...

*****

 

 

Clint loved fall. He could throw on his black leather jacket without sweating his balls off, his weakness for fresh pumpkin scones was legendary, and the crispness of the air made him feel comfortable in his own skin. Crossing one boot over the other as he settled back against his favorite weird fence, Clint pulled in a huge hit off his perfectly rolled joint and held it in his lungs until they burned. In six years he’d _never_ had to pause before bounding up the three steps to the Barnes’ front door, but today things were different. Stark obnoxiously pushing the doorbell over and over as he stared into the kitchen window...the super high strung legal team littering the steps...and the shadows of Bucky and Steve peeking out from opposite sides of the curtains...it was all wrong. So Clint had paused, fired up his killer hydro, and made the wise decision to spend a few minutes thinking about fall. Maybe Mr. Barnes would let Nat borrow his car this weekend, so they could drive upstate to a rustic cider mill somewhere. The kind with a charming creek, hay rides, and a shit ton of bees. He had a real weakness for donuts and cider too.

Kicking at the tree that grew out of the sidewalk next to the fence, Clint rubbed his toe under a loose piece of bark and appreciated its awesomeness. The roots had basically told the concrete to fuck off, and, over the years, they’d snaked their way out of the Earth and had demolished two entire squares. Huge cracks radiated across the sidewalk and lifted up the concrete like it was paper. Simply put, the tree was a badass. If Clint was a tree, he’d want to be exactly like this one; the same rough bark, the same jagged branches raising towards the Brooklyn sky, and the same super strong roots that obliterated anything in their path. Reaching out his hand, he gave the tree a little pat for a job well done, then sighed, because he’d run out of nice things to say about the tree as a means to procrastinate.There was no justifiable reason for him to be staring at his feet and pondering the strength of nature, or getting lost in the swirling pattern of the falling leaves...he _should_ be hopping up onto the porch like normal, opening the door without knocking, and stealing peanut M &Ms from Mr. Barnes’ secret stash behind the Corn Flakes...but Clint was stuck petting a tree and wondering how the fuck he’d gotten here.

Suddenly, the front door slammed open, and the sound of it hitting the wall inside the house made Clint jump. The whole crowd on the porch took a step backwards, but Tony wasn’t fast enough to avoid the screen door flying outwards at his face. Bucky had forcefully kicked it into Tony’s chest, then had used the inertia to pin the poor guy between the porch railing and the screen, which was... _fuck_. Clint didn’t know what the fuck it was.

Bucky lunged forward and used his palms to push the screen around Tony’s body, screaming, “Ding dong, ding dong, ding dong!” at the top of his lungs.

Clint could only stare, his jaw landing somewhere near the roots of the tree, as the reality of the situation became perfectly clear. Sure, everything had already been _beyond_ fucked, but Bucky completely losing his shit while wearing nothing but a pair of red boxer briefs brought Clint up to speed on the next level shit that was going down in Stucky Land. In sharp contrast, Clint’s last cinematic outing had ended with a wide shot of Bucky’s wavy, brown hair cascading beautifully over his shoulders in the indian summer breeze, while his eyes had followed Steve Rogers perfectly toned ass trotting towards the parking garage. It had been the pinnacle of hopeful, young love, the ultimate blissful ending, and the only thing that could have made the scene any more romantic would have been a perfect green screen sunset! The sequel? Not so much.

“Get the hell off me!” Tony hollered, pushing back on the door. “You’re spitting all over my face!”

But Bucky didn’t move. In fact, he kept right on screaming as the screen bent outwards from the pressure of his forehead. The lawyers wisely took another matching step backwards.

“Bucky! Stop it!” Steve had appeared in the doorway and, jesus, that was another shit show entirely! He desperately grabbed for Bucky’s bicep with his non-broken arm while simultaneously trying to keep Bucky’s striped hoodie from falling off his shoulders with the broken one. “Bucky! Stop!”

Steve’s voice echoed down the block, bouncing of the bricks and making old Mr. Peterson two doors down drop his watering can with a big splash all over his shoes. It had been loud enough that Michael, the limo driver, had gotten back out of the car and had whispered, “Jesus” over the hood. It had been loud enough that the poodle across the street had started barking wildly out of her owner’s cracked second floor window. It had been loud enough that Tony’d stopped struggling and was now staring at Bucky with huge, shocked eyes. It had been loud enough that Clint felt fear in the silence that followed.

In horror movies, the soundtrack is the key to creating a sense of dread and making audiences jump out of their seats at the right time. A swell of dark, ominous tones rises as the monster zeroes in on the helpless teenage girl hiding underneath the bed; slowly, slowly, the floorboards creak, then suddenly, a violin shrieks as a clawed hand snatches her by the foot and yanks her violently backwards! It’s all very predictable; a formula used with great success for over one hundred years. But Clint hardly ever jumped when he was supposed to anymore.

Daisy always shrieked right on cue, leaping into whoever’s lap happened to be open for business when Jason eviscerated another stupid teenager at the height of the crescendo. Skinner always tried to play it off like he wasn’t surprised, but every time a paranormal ghost slammed someone against a wall, he managed to spill his popcorn. Nat preferred tucking her nose into the crook of someone’s arm whenever the chainsaw roared to life and the tempo picked up, while Bucky consistently stuck with the traditional ‘peeking out between his fingers’ technique. But not Clint. When Freddy dragged his claws along the walls of a spooky alley, the metal tips shrieking and sparking, Clint payed attention to the dramatic lighting, the special effects, and the gory make-up. He’d grown immune to the minor chords and the fake blood splattering everywhere.

But the quiet...well, the quiet was different.

Leaning harder against the fence, Clint squinted up at the rabid version of his best friend and tried to make sense of what was happening. Bucky wasn’t yelling anymore, but the pressure from his hands was the same, and his hair seemed to be flailing around in snake-like tendrils against the screen. Clint could almost hear them hissing. Steve’s voice had been the screeching chord, but the brown snakes searching for a gap so they could sink their fangs into Tony Stark’s face were the true terror. The shift in genres was fucking shocking. Make room on his shelf of DVDs, because Steve and Bucky’s epic romance/horror movie had earned its place next to ‘The _mother fucking_ Shining’! After all, how was screaming at the top of your lungs while bashing a screen door into a multi-millionaire’s face any different than smashing an axe through a bathroom door while screaming ‘redrum’?

He needed a minute. He needed more than a minute. He needed someone to say something, or do something to make everything go back to the way it used to be, but there was just the obnoxious poodle and Mr. Peterson bitching about his wet shoes. Clint took one more _really_ long hit before carefully putting the joint out on the bottom of his boot. Nat had told him that he’d been smoking too much lately. She was right. Nat had told him that they should be worried about Bucky. She’d been right. Nat had nibbled on his ear and had whispered that everything was falling apart. She’d been right about that too.

By the time Clint felt brave enough to look up, Steve was gently guiding Bucky backwards into the house, and Tony was brushing his hands over his hair and pulling the sunglasses off his face.

“Is it safe to come in now, Steve?” Tony held open the door for the three suits as Steve stammered apology after apology. For some reason, Steve was still trying to zip the hoodie over his seriously messed up chest with his seriously messed up arm. “At least now I know what to get your _boyfriend_ for Christmas; a case of Milk-Bones should make your guard dog happy, right? For fuck’s sake, Steve. Look at this! He spit all over my sunglasses!”

“Tony, I don’t…”

“Listen,” Tony interrupted, wiping the glasses on his shirt. “I’m not in the mood. You’re not the only one having a bad day, and I’m trying to do you a favor here. I’m gonna tell Mark to bill my dad extra for having to endure that little display of uncontrolled aggression. You know they’re two grand an hour, right? Let’s do the math: Letting your deranged boy toy attack your best friend like a pit bull? Five-hundred dollars, Steve! I know that number didn’t mean jack shit to you a few days ago, but now that you’re down one wealthy, abusive step-father you might wanna think twice before letting Bucky off the leash. ”

“Jesus, Tony…”

“Nope. Don’t wanna hear it. You’re not helping me with _my_ boyfriend problems, so I’m not helping you with yours.” Tony patted Steve on his non-fucked up cheek and squeezed past him to disappear into the house.

Then it was just Steve staring at Clint blankly, and it seemed even quieter than before. To think that all of this had started with an empty spot on the swim team...

Patting his tree goodbye, Clint walked to the bottom of the steps and took a long, hard look at Steve Rogers standing in the doorway...in _Bucky’s_ doorway. He looked _different_ . Nat had called him in a panic from the emergency room, so Clint knew what Pierce had done, but her description hadn’t done the damage justice. Steve was a _mess_ ; like he went twelve rounds in a brutal MMA fight and came out on the losing end. But that wasn’t why he seemed different. There was something else. Cocking his head to the side, Clint gave him a once over. It was something about the way that Steve was standing; he looked...older?...taller? Even though he was struggling to use a zipper like a three-year-old, Steve somehow seemed...bigger?

He tucked the joint behind his ear and started with the obvious. “You look horrible.”

“I _feel_ horrible.” Steve kept right on fumbling and muttering under his breath.

“Why is Bucky freaking out?”

“He’s mad at Tony for helping me plan this whole thing out. Goddammit, I can’t zip this fucking thing!” Letting the fabric fall, Steve huffed a breath out his nose and stared down at his chest. He looked pissed.

“I think that’s a pretty understandable reaction.” Moving up a step, Clint got his first real look at the stitches, and his stomach rolled. “Especially since you decided to keep Bucky in the dark about the whole thing.”

Stepping backwards, Steve pointlessly tried the zipper again. There was no way in hell that he was gonna get it to catch with his bruised fingers. “I know. I’m an idiot. I should have told him, but right now I need to go in there and deal with...”

“Don’t worry about it,” Clint interrupted, climbing the final two stairs and grabbing the fabric out of Steve’s fumbling hands. “You take care of business, and I’ll check on Bucky.”

As he carefully guided the silver teeth together, Clint longed for the days when the worst thing that Bucky had to deal with was a bunch of jocks calling him a ‘fucking faggot’. Clint _knew_ how to help Bucky handle that kind of immature bullshit. The prescription for Castle clotheslining Bucky by the lockers? A heaping dose of bad seventies’ porn while Bucky snuggled up next to him on the couch. The cure for Rollins whispering ‘cum dumpster’ in Bucky’s ear? A gallon of superman ice cream devoured with a shared spoon. The emergency protocol for Rumlow pouring syrup into Bucky’s backpack at lunch? A pizza from Anthony’s and an extra slow handjob. Those were all Band-Aids that Clint knew how to apply. But this? Bucky completely losing his shit and imitating a fucking doorbell for all of Brooklyn to hear during dinnertime!? How the fuck was Clint supposed to help with something that royally screwed up!? Just a few weeks ago, there was no way in hell that Clint would have ever imagined that he’d be zipping up _Steve Rogers_ in Bucky’s blue and white striped hoodie...and yet, here he was.

“We can’t get this party started without our star victim. C’mon Steve! You’re embarrassing me in front of Mark, Mike, and Mitch.” Tony’s obnoxious voice echoed down the hallway, and Steve had the decency to look conflicted for a split second. “Steve! I have a date lined up tonight, and you’re fucking up my rebound sex timeline!”

Squeezing his forehead, Steve leaned backwards against the red door and closed his eyes...

“Do you hear me, Steve!? I’m yelling really loud, so I can only assume that you do! Unless Pierce damaged your hearing too!”

Steve’s eyes stayed shut, and his eyebrows pinched together...

“I mean, you _did_ let him break your arm, so I wouldn’t be surprised if you’d let him blow out an eardrum or two for good measure!”

A breath slipped out from between Steve’s lips, and he didn’t inhale another one...

“Steve! What are you doing!? Making us a tray of Triscuits with spray cheese!?”

His jaw set in a hard line as Steve mumbled, “He’s not going to stop.”

Tony’s voice had turned into one long string of really loud words, the barrage of syllables adding up to nothing, and Steve looked like he was gonna crack from the tension. That was it. Clint was fucking done. Stepping into the house and letting the screen door slam behind him, he snapped, “Dude, I’ve got it.”

“You’ve got what?”

“Your boyfriend!”

You would think that yelling something like that into Steve’s fucked up face might have gotten some sort of reaction, but the most annoying voice on Earth kept on rambling, and Steve merely closed his eyes again. “I swear to god, Steve!” Tony blathered. “If I don’t get past first base with my snarky Scandinavian kitty cat tonight, I’m blaming you!”

Clint wanted to hug Steve and punch him in the jaw at the same time, for... _reasons_. But more than that, Clint longed for the feeling of a giant spoonful of Superman ice cream melting on his tongue. Maybe Bucky had some stashed in the back of the freezer?

Calmly touching Steve’s wrist, he nodded towards the living room and whispered, “Go, do what you have to do.”  

When Steve turned to walk down the hall, he quickly glanced into the kitchen but didn’t stop; there wasn’t a pause in his step, no hesitation as he walked towards the sound of Tony’s voice...not even a backwards glance to acknowledge the silence of the kitchen. After all, Steve Rogers had important business to attend to.

Closing the front door and flipping the dead bolt, Clint took a second to stare at Bucky’s bunny slippers that had been haphazardly thrown into the corner. For some reason, the sight really pissed him off. They were firmly in the top ten of Bucky’s favorite things, and there was no good reason that they should be getting dirty in the goddamn corner! Snatching them up and brushing the dust off, Clint set them carefully on the bench where they belonged. Their bloodshot eyeballs stared up at him with something like gratitude as the expelled dust particles floated through the air. Something about those little pieces of dirt made Clint realize how thankful he was that Tony’d talked him into joining his ‘Shakespearean Field Trip to the Underworld’.

Tony had cornered him in the first floor bathroom after school, promising an epic adventure full of ‘drama, excitement, tragedy, and romance’. Clint hadn’t been sold on Stark’s brand of theater and had promptly told him to pack up his snake oil and ‘fuck off’. But Tony hadn’t fucked off at all. Instead, he’d leaned towards the mirror and had pretended to fix his perfectly styled hair while side-eyeing him in the reflection. Clint hadn’t been in the mood to deal with any more of Tony’s bullshit, but there’d been something about his posture...something submissive that had made Clint shut-up and listen. Sighing at his reflection, Tony’d turned the water on full blast for no reason as he’d mumbled, ‘I need you to come for Bucky.’

Funny how Tony Stark could be insightful... _thoughtful_ even. That when the dickhead wasn’t busy galavanting around the school like he owned the place, he did things like coming up with a way for Steve to escape his horrifically violent home, giving Skinner a once-in-a-lifetime chance to join his super science team at MIT, and spending his entire lunch hour talking to the very upset, suddenly solo captain of the swim team on the cafeteria balcony. Clint had even seen Tony give Sam a big hug after the bell had rung. Under all the pomp and circumstance, Tony Stark payed enough attention to the people around him to know that Bucky might need some backup. Clint was on the verge of calling him a real friend.

Suddenly, the door from the garage slammed open and Mr. Barnes and Nat quickly crossed the junction at the end of the hall towards the living room. Neither one of them had seen Clint standing there in the pile of coats, cardigans, and hoodies, but it didn’t matter. He’d done the right thing calling Nat. He didn’t need a fucking medal for it.

Jammed into that limo with three creepy lawyers and Tony, Clint had felt something like panic rising underneath his skin. In that moment, he’d stopped caring that he’d bailed out on archery practice, or that he’d gotten caught skipping class to make out with Nat. None of that stupid shit mattered. Ignoring Tony’s overly detailed story about Macaulay dumping him, Clint had pulled out his phone to call Nat right away. She and her dad had just pulled into the parking lot of her dance studio in Harlem, but before Clint had even finished explaining the situation, they’d hopped right back in the car to fight the traffic all the way back to Brooklyn. Yes, Bucky needed backup, but Steve did too.

 

 

 

_“Clint, you think I speak good now?” The weird little Russian kid that Clint had met at the YMCA was over at his apartment for the first time, poking at shit around Clint’s room. “I try TV station you say to help.”_

_Skateboarding across the carpet, Clint tried to ollie over his backpack but crashed into his dresser instead. “Oh, you did, huh? Gimme a line then.”_

_The kid’s front teeth had a big gap in the middle, and he was still scrawny as hell, despite practically doubling in size in the few weeks that they’d known each other. He was particularly fond of shoving dozens of Oreos into his mouth and washing them down with a shit ton of chocolate milk. Offering Clint a big, proud smile, the kid adopted a horrible American accent and blurted, “What do you talk about, Willis?”_

_Clint snorted….full on snorted... and maybe he felt a little bad for telling the kid to watch that retro TV Land channel all day. “That was awful, Yakov.”_

_“I no like Yakov. I tell you this, asshole.”_

_“Well, at least you’ve got your swear words down. But I’m not calling you Bukhalo. It sounds like bukake.”_

_“What is this bukake, fucker?” The kid looked mad as he snatched the skateboard out of Clint’s hand. “You tell me now, you dirty cock!”_

_That was exactly why Clint wanted to be this kid’s friend._

_“Dude, you can’t end every sentence with a swear word! Jesus! It’s like you aren’t even listening to me.” Flopping down on the bed, Clint kicked off his leopard print Vans. “Okay, you don’t like Yakov...Bukake sucks...lemme think here.”_

_Throwing the skateboard on the floor, the little shit waved his fingers around and yelled, “My name Bukhalo, dildo face!”_

_“Oh my god!” Clint covered his head with a pillow to stifle his uncontrollable laughter. It took him at least thirty seconds to reign it in enough to sit up and smile at the guy. He honestly looked like he was gonna punch Clint in the nose. “Dude, listen. I was a prick for telling you that ‘dildo face’ is a common swear word here in America. Please forget that I ever said that. I take it back completely.”_

_A huge string of angry words exploded out of the kid’s mouth, none of them English, and as the Russian lunatic gestured and bitched at Clint in his mother tongue, it came to him._

_“Bro,” Clint interrupted. Surprisingly, the kid stopped his tirade long enough to glare at Clint through lowered lids. Impressively, he looked really fucking scary. “I’ve got it! How about Bucky? Bucky Barnes?”_

  
  


Stepping into the kitchen, Clint caught sight of the former Yakov Mikhailovich Bukhalo out of the corner of his eye. The wild kid that Clint had taken under his wing, who’d morphed over the years into the no-less-wild James Buchanan Barnes, was standing four inches in front of the refrigerator with his shoulders heaving. Clint paused mid-step because...to clarify...Bucky was _facing_ the fucking _refrigerator_ with the door fucking _closed!_ For the first time in six years, Clint found himself stuck halfway through a doorway that he’d walked through a million times...and he didn’t feel welcome. It took Phil’s voice rising above the others and confidently saying, “What’s the first step?” for Clint to take the first step into the kitchen towards his...best friend.

The second his boots squeaked on the checkered linoleum, Bucky’s shoulders went completely still; the heavy breathing replaced by something silent. It made all the scary things that had come before it seem like child’s play. _This_ was the horror show. Smash your hands over your eyes, shove your face into your date’s armpit, hide behind your chair on the sticky theater floor... Clint was gonna touch Bucky’s shoulder and he’d crumble into a pile of dust like Claudia in their favorite gay vampire movie. Flinching backwards against the stone walls of the catacombs, Clint was gonna weep like Louis; destroyed by the death of his...best friend?

Fucking hell. When in doubt, go for lighthearted. “Hey, sunshine,” he tried, “you look like you could use a hit.”

“What?” Bucky gasped, jerking around so fast that Clint tripped backwards over his own feet. His eyes looked wild...distant.

Yeah, this was ‘The Shining’ for sure. The snow plows weren’t coming, those scary ass twins were probably right around the corner, and Clint would have been tempted to search for Bucky’s typewriter if he wasn’t so fucking scared. Before Clint could catch his breath, Bucky stumbled into the fridge and knocked off all of the colorful magnets. When they slid across the floor, Bucky lurched forward and mumbled, “One, two, three, four...where’s my toe?”

What. The. Fuck?

Swiping at one of the magnets, Bucky’s knees locked and his long hair swung towards the floor as he started tipping. Without thinking, Clint lunged forward and caught him around the waist, panting, “Woah, what the hell…?”

But Bucky didn’t stop reaching for the magnets. He didn’t even register that Clint was holding onto him! Instead, he pulled hard against Clint’s grasp as he stretched out his long fingers towards the Coke bottle opener, the letter ‘B’, the ugly pig, and the ladybug. He was _heavy_ , and Clint felt the strain on his shoulder muscles as his boots slid forward from the weight. He was about to yell for Mr. Barnes, when Bucky hissed under his breath...literally _hissed_ , “Don’t answer the door.”

Those four little words would go down in history as the scariest sentence that Clint had ever heard. Clint _knew_ Bucky. He knew him inside and out! He knew that Bucky was really bothered by the dead cat in ‘Pet Semetary’ and that he cried every time the horse jumped off the boat and got obliterated by the propellers in ‘The Ring’. Clint knew that Bucky believed that he would have died in that orphanage if Nat hadn’t been there to keep him strong on the hardest of days. Clint knew that when Bucky died that he wanted to be cremated and turned into one of those eco friendly dead guy trees. The sentimental sap wanted to be planted in Prospect Park because Phil had taken Bucky and Nat there a few weeks after they’d been adopted to throw a baseball around. Bucky wanted Clint to sneak into a _public park_ in the middle of the night and plant his ass next to that nondescript field, because that had been the first place that he’d felt like he was part of a family. Clint _knew_ that Bucky never thought he was good enough, that he hid behind his jokes, that he’d hurt himself if it meant sparing the people that he loved. Clint _knew_ that every single time they’d danced together Bucky had felt free enough to throw shoes at the fucking wall and to let everything that had been festering inside of him out! Clint _knew_...

Dammit! Clint was afraid that his... _best friend_ …No! Fuck that! Clint was afraid that his _everything_ was losing his goddamned mind, and he had to do something about it!

Yanking his dead weight upright, Clint spun him around, commanding, “Bucky, baby, look at me right fucking now.”

But he didn’t.

The director of every great horror film has to choose the image for the poster wisely; something iconic like an alien egg cracking open to ooze ominous green mist across a black background, or suspenseful like a great white shark stretching open its jaws to expose rows and rows of razor sharp teeth as it surged up from below to eat a swimmer for dinner. When Bucky slowly raised his shaking hands on either side of Clint’s face and ran his fingers through the colored strands of hair, the poster for this nightmare came sharply into focus. Clint wished more than anything that it hadn’t...that he could erase the image of Bucky touching him like that from his memory and purge it forever...because it was fucking awful! Jerking forward, Bucky stuck his nose against the side of Clint’s hair and smelled it... _fucking smelled it_...before shaking his head violently to the left. “Your hair is blue!”

“Bucky, jesus christ, sit down…”

But he didn’t. He didn’t sit down, and he didn’t look Clint in the eye. Instead, he skittered backwards until the small of his back hit the edge of the counter hard enough to knock over the container full of silver spoons and tongs. As they spilled out onto the white formica, clanging and rattling, Bucky stared blankly at the bright blue hair that Nat had so lovingly dyed, and Clint had never felt so naked...

Yesterday, after the stress and drama of the hospital, Nat had texted to ask if she could come over to Clint’s apartment when he got home from school. Yes! Of course she could! She was his _girlfriend,_ and he hadn’t had the chance to spend any quality time with her since the night of the dance! The temptation to text back ‘don’t be stupid!’ had been real, but he’d sent the much more appropriate ‘see u at 4’ with a fuckload of heart emojis instead. Post text, fifth and sixth hour had dragged on for a painful eternity, Frank and TJ had inconveniently cornered him on the way out the door to ask about Steve, the subway had been even _more_ crowded than normal, _plus_ a baby had screamed bloody murder the entire way, _and_ it had been running fifteen minutes late, _and_ it had started fucking raining! Nat’s red hair getting soaked as she huddled in front of his building had been stamped across his imagination as he’d run the four blocks from the station to his apartment. But everything had been conspiring against him: the red lights, the taxi that had almost flattened his ass, his wallet falling out of his back pocket and swinging by the chain as he’d slid to a stop on the wet pavement. Really, what could have been better than dodging raindrops while he’d chased dollar bills down the sidewalk for five minutes? Every second between Nat’s text and the moment when he’d finally caught sight of her sitting in the rain had fucking _sucked_.

But before he’d been able to apologize, she’d smiled up at him, happily letting the raindrops splash onto her face as she’d said, ‘C’mere. You look like you need a hug’.

As soon as she’d touched him, all of the shit had been washed away. The sounds of the crying baby had gotten lost in the rain as Nat had wrapped her arms around his thighs and pressed her head against his hip. TJ Campbell’s lowered gaze had disappeared into the clouds as she’d slid up Clint’s body to place a warm kiss on his lips. Lifting her tiny frame off the steps so she could wrap her legs around his waist had been the easiest thing in the world. When the sky had opened up above them, he’d even forgotten about Bucky.

Somehow, they’d ended up naked in the bathtub while Nat had slathered blue dye all over the bottom half of his hair. Amazingly, she hadn’t let a single drop hit Clint’s skin; not even when he’d pulled her around onto his lap to rub his half hard dick all over her ass. The whole thing had been ridiculous, funny, easy, _nice_...just two horny teenagers figuring out new ways to touch one another while they’d waited thirty minutes for the dye to set. Nothing more...nothing less.

But the second Clint had swiped his hand across the steamy bathroom mirror, the implications had hit him like a fucking truck. What the hell had he been thinking? Blue drops of water had been dripping off the ends of his hair to stain the ugly pink bath mat as his beautiful, smart, perfect girlfriend had carefully climbed onto the toilet so she’d be tall enough to towel dry his hair. They’d been laughing as she’d wildly rubbed his head...ridiculous, funny, easy, _nice_...when he’d absently rubbed his hand across the foggy glass. At that moment, it hadn’t mattered that Nat’s boobs were doing this wonderful little jiggle as she’d squeezed the water out of the back of his hair, or that only seconds before he’d been laughing like an idiot when she’d slapped his bare ass. Everything ridiculous, fun, easy, and nice had gone out the goddamn window as soon as Clint’s eyes had focused on the shocks of blue escaping from the white towel. Then, regret had reared its ugly head.

 _Bucky_ dyed his hair. Bucky had _always_ dyed his hair. Bubblegum pink to raise money for breast cancer awareness in eighth grade, a very unfortunate puke green accident freshman year that had been _immediately_ followed up by a solid black goth phase, and _Bucky’d_ dyed the whole thing fire engine red junior year, managing to transform Clint’s bathroom into the shower scene from ‘Psycho’ in the process. Less than a month ago, Bucky’d squeezed between Clint’s knees in the tiny bathroom and had dyed it purple...just the tips. Purple like Prince. Purple spilled on Bucky’s baby blue shoes. Purple staining Bucky’s hands.

Clint had quickly turned away from his reflection, rewrapped the towel around his head like a turban, then had picked up Nat by her thighs to carry her to his bed. Lovingly kissing her soft lips, he’d taking his sweet time making sure that she’d felt good, that he’d made her come more than once, that he’d held her tightly against him before she’d had to leave...and all of it had felt wonderful. But, for some reason, when Nat had called him later that night to FaceTime with Bucky, he’d told her to hold on for a second while he’d pulled the bright blue hair out of sight into a tight, low bun.

Now, with spoons clattering across the counter, and Bucky’s frightened eyes drowning in the blue, Clint found himself in the same headspace; desperately wanting to yank every single strand out of view. He was about to dig around in his pockets for a hair tie when Bucky let out a strangled sob and gasped, “They’re looking at me! I can see them in there, Clint.”

 

 

 

_“No, dude, You’ve gotta keep your wrist straight when you pull back.” Clint motioned for Bucky to give him back the bow...again. “You’re gonna shoot an       arrow right off the top of this roof and kill an innocent tourist! Give me that!”_

_“Fine. Whatever. I guess you’d better give me another demonstration of your excellent form.” Bucky rolled his eyes and flopped into the green lawn chair, adjusting the trucker cap that he was wearing unironically. It said John Deer._

_“God, you’re the worst student.” Lining his feet up perfectly, Clint closed one eye and honed in on the hay bale, that they’d precariously hauled up the ladder, and drew his bow. “Pay attention this time, cupcake. Look at my wrist. Do you see how straight it is?”_

_“Hmm, I’m not really sure.” The sound of Bucky tapping his toes in a drumroll mixed with the honking car horns that were drifting up from the street below. “It looks straight from here, but if I dip my head a little lower...you know, hip level...then I’m not so sure anymore.”_

_Clint sighed and released the arrow, hitting the paper target dead center before he turned to face him. Bucky had a shit eating grin on his face, and Clint couldn’t stop himself from laughing. “You’ve been breaking your wrist on purpose.”_

_“Mmm hmm.”_

_“So you could ogle my sexy arm muscles.”_

_“Yep.”_

_Pulling another arrow from his quiver, Clint quickly shot another bullseye before muttering, “You’re an asshole.”_

_“Yeah,” Bucky chuckled. “But you love me anyway.”_

 

  
Clint had Bucky in his arms almost instantly, running as fast as he could across the kitchen to scoop him up by his armpits and support him while he wept into Clint’s shirt. “Shhh, it’s okay, sunshine. I don’t know what’s wrong, but I’m here. Okay, I’m here.”

“Clint?” Bucky lifted his snotty face enough for Clint to see a hint of clarity in his eyes, and damn, if he didn’t release a breath that he hadn’t even realized he was holding.

“Yeah, baby, that’s it.” Steering them backwards, Clint caught the leg of a chair with his boot and dragged it towards them. Letting go just long enough to pull it behind Bucky, he carefully lowered him into the chair and kneeled before him. Tony was raising his voice, and Steve was talking in even tones, but Clint didn’t give a shit. He didn’t. Touching Bucky’s bare thighs, Clint met his gaze and said it again. He knew that he shouldn’t….that he was a fucking mother fucker for even considering it. Maybe the first time the word had slipped, maybe the second time too, but this time...well, this time he couldn’t lie to himself. “Baby, are you with me now?”

“No. I’m trying to be, but it won’t stop. Can you make it stop?”

“Make what stop?”

“Brock.” Bucky scrubbed his hands across his face and pushed his wild hair behind his ears. “I just…” Pausing, he stared up at the ceiling, the glowing white light making him look like an angel, and it made Clint remember him bathed in the hazy blue light of Daisy’s pictures. Tragically beautiful...so _fucking beautiful_. Clenching his jaw tighter and swallowing hard enough that his Adam’s apple bobbed heavily in his throat, he stuttered, “I just...I’m...I’m so worried about Steve.”

“You said _Brock_ .” Clint stood up and pulled up the other chair, putting his hands on Bucky’s shoulders to try to figure out what the hell he was talking about. “You just asked me to make _Brock_ stop. Did he show up here? Did you see him? I swear, if I see that fucker I’m gonna…”

“No,” Bucky sighed, rolling his shoulders into Clint’s hands. “No, I keep...dreaming about him. It’s stupid. I’m sorry. I think seeing Steve hurt like this is just...I don’t know...fucking me up. I just need to get a good night’s sleep or something.”

“Bucky…”

“Can I have a hit of that joint?” Before Clint realized what was happening, Bucky’d already snatched the joint from where he’d tucked it above his ear and had popped it between his lips. “C’mon, you gonna light me up, or what?”

“Your dad’s in the other room.”

“So what?”

“With a bunch of lawyers.”

“So?”

Clint sighed, because he didn’t know how the hell to deal with the way Bucky was dangling the joint from the corner of his mouth, or the way that he fucking _winked_ at him! “Bucky, I don’t think this is a good idea.”

“It’s not like we’re the patron saints of good ideas. For fuck’s sake, pull out your fucking zippo…” He paused, leaning the chair back on two legs as he flexed his calf muscles up and down. “C’mon, live a little.”

Maybe Clint reached into his back pocket because he needed a hit too. Maybe he did it because he fucking wanted to. Sure, Mr. Barnes was gonna rip them a new asshole, but Bucky was staring at him through those goddamn lowered eyelashes...jesus. Clint found himself flicking the lighter without hesitation as Bucky sucked hard enough to ignite the flame.

The instant the smoke filled his lungs, Bucky’s eyes narrowed into something mischievous...or sinister. Regardless, the tension amplified as Bucky leaned forward to blow the smoke slowly across Clint’s face. Their lips were only a few inches apart when Bucky murmured, “Thanks... _baby_.”

“Woah.” Clint was out of his chair so fucking fast that he tripped over his own goddamn feet, because...what the fuck?

And Bucky? Well, he just rested his elbows on his knees and snickered...which was such bullshit! _Bullshit!_ It was hard not to scream when Clint snapped, “Are you fucking laughing at me?”

“No.”

Bucky’d said it casually with a flippant little shrug to his shoulders; like whatever the fuck was happening was a complete and total figment of Clint’s imagination; which it most definitely was _not_ ! There was _nothing_ imaginary about the way Bucky slowly licked his lips before he took a second hit, or the way his knees spread a little wider as he seductively flipped his hair over his shoulder. Watching the surreal scene unfolding in front of him, Clint had no idea what Bucky was doing...or what the hell _he_ was doing for that matter!

“Don’t be so dramatic,” Bucky sighed, quickly sliding his chair back to the table. “Sit down. Take a load off. Chillax. You can finish Steve’s burrito.”

“I don’t want Steve’s half eaten burrito!”

Bucky snorted and poked his finger into the goopy end. “Well, that’s pretty fucking obvious.”

When the subject of a conversation is a burrito, logic would suggest that you are, in fact, talking about a _burrito_ . But the way they were staring at one another, all bitchy and brooding, made it pretty fucking clear that they weren’t talking about anything even _remotely_ burrito related. That was Clint’s fault. Calling Bucky _‘baby’_? Yeah, he was a fucking asshole for that one, and the realization made him drop his gaze in shame like a dog who’d gotten caught shiting on the fucking rug.

Cautiously pulling up his chair, it took Clint a second to find the courage to look back up. Maybe he was expecting a rolled up newspaper to hit him on the nose or a swift kick to nail him in the ribs, but his punishment was Bucky softly smiling and tapping his fingertips along the edge of his plate. His lips were parted the tiniest bit; just enough to let the little gap between his front teeth peek out...and yeah, Clint was a top notch asshole for loving the way that it looked...but he was an even bigger asshole for remembering how it had felt to run his tongue across the tiny space…

When the end of senior year rolled around and Clint got to throw on a cap and gown at graduation, his diploma should say ‘Clint Barton, Asshole’. If he ever landed some kind of fancy job that required an even fancier box of business cards? Well, those suckers should read ‘Professional Asshole’ in gold leaf letters. Standard Christmas cards with Santa and his merry band of elves? ‘Happy Holidays, from the Asshole who always drinks too much eggnog and sets the tree on fire’. And when he croaked, his tombstone should have his mother fucking legacy etched deeply into the stone: ‘The Asshole who couldn’t make up his fucking mind’.

Snatching up the cold burrito, Clint took a deep breath. “Dammit, Bucky. I’m sorry I called you that. I shouldn’t have...I know it was stupid... _really_ fucking stupid. I was freaking out that you were freaking out, and…”

Bucky’s phone lit up in the middle of the table, and Clint stopped dead when saw the name at the top of the text. It was hard to read through the shattered screen...and Clint wasn’t purposefully trying to stick his nose in Bucky’s business...but, jesus, it was right in front of him!

          TJ: Hey, r u ok?

“I really need to go in there,” Bucky blurted out. “Steve’s probably making this massive life decision right now, and I’m in here getting high like a dick.” To punctuate his point, Bucky held the joint up to his lips and grinned before sucking on the end.

Clint was flabbergasted. _Beyond_ flabbergasted. He couldn’t stop himself from snapping, “Why the fuck is TJ Campbell texting you!?”

“What?” Bucky made no effort to look at the phone as he blew a smoke ring towards the half eaten burrito. “Why the hell would I know?”

“Because it’s your fucking phone!”

“Listen, Clint. I don’t have a clue. Okay?” He adjusted the set of his jaw before he snapped, “Get off my back, _dildo face_.”

Everything stopped as those words rolled off Bucky’s tongue, because he’d spoken them with a thick Russian accent; something Clint hadn’t heard him do in _years_. The deep roll of the syllables sounded completely different coming from the seventeen-year-old version of Bucky; richer, heavier...more emotive than the fast, high pitches of the scrawny, pissed off middle schooler he’d befriended at the goddamn YMCA. Clint’s body was paralyzed as Bucky took one final drag of the joint. It had burned down far enough to blacken his fingertips...

 _Clint_ had taught Bucky how to smoke weed when they were thirteen! _He’d_ done that! In a moment of pure luck and opportunity, Clint had been at the right place at the right time. After school one day, he’d slinked into the corner store to pick up some sour cream and onion Ruffles and a Slushie to help him soldier through a stupid book report on ‘The Outsiders’ when he’d spotted a horribly rolled joint sitting next to the cash register. The clerk had been a notorious stoner, fitting every cliché down to the stretched out beanie, long greasy hair, and ‘Fast Times at Ridgemont High’ voice, but Clint had never seen him leave weed out in plain sight before! The universe had spoken. That joint was gonna be his! It had taken a shit load of patience, and some high quality acting to feign interest in the rack of plastic sunglasses for over five minutes, but _eventually_ an old lady in a moo moo had asked for a pack of Menthols, and Spicoli had turned around to reach for them. Bingo! Instantly, Clint had pocketed that forbidden joint and had run out the door as fast as his legs could carry him, the chips and cherry Slushie forgotten. He still remembered exactly how his skateboard had sounded bumping along the sidewalk as he’d hurried home to call Bucky. Twenty minutes later, they’d squeezed together on the fire escape, feeling cool as fuck as they’d used an honest-to-goodness match to light up for the first time. After a few tries, Clint had figured out how to inhale like a pro, but Bucky...not so much.

Now, a thousand joints later, tears welled up in Clint’s eyes as he thought about his brilliant solution; as the THC had hit his brain and the fire escape had started to undulate, he’d turned his face towards the weird little Russian kid, wrapped his hand around the back of his neck, and had shotgunned him instead...

He couldn’t do it. Clint couldn’t think about it anymore! He was an asshole. Bucky was going crazy. The goddamn burrito was cold and gross. Steve was in the living room. _Nat_ was in the living room for christ’s sake, and he...he just wanted to hide inside a poorly made blanket fort for hours, like the two of them had done after they’d smoked that joint!

Clint probably should have forced himself to mumble something like ‘Let’s go see if Steve is okay’, or ‘I’ll go grab you some clothes so we can see what’s happening in the living room’, but he couldn’t do it. What came out was something else entirely. “You really wanna go in there? I think Steve would understand if you chilled in here with me. This is some serious shit, and you just completely freaked out about the color of my hair.”

Bucky’s answer was immediate and sharp as he handed the joint across the table like it offended him. “Steve needs me.”

The fucking roach burned Clint’s fingers, so he tossed it onto Bucky’s untouched plate, snatched up Steve’s goddamn half-eaten, cold burrito, and took a huge, pissed off bite. He _had_ to in order to keep himself from yelling, ‘Remember the other day when the three of us woke up all snuggled together like three little pigs in a goddamn blanket and played that phenomenally fucked up game of Twister? Remember when I told your brand new _boyfriend_ that I thought he was good for you? Remember that Bucky!? Well, I take it back! I take it _all_ back!’

Chewing and chewing the gross burrito to physically force himself to shut-up, Clint managed to get himself _somewhat_ under control. At least enough to say, “For fuck’s sake, Bucky. Go upstairs and relax. Climb into bed. I’ll make sure that Tony Stark gets the hell out of your house, and then I’ll bring you up some ice cream. Steve’s a big boy. He can handle himself. And your dad and Nat are in there with him…”

Bucky’s eyes darted over Clint’s shoulder, and it took a second to figure out that he was staring at the clock on the microwave. He didn’t look away from the numbers when he said, “I’m not leaving him.”

Now Clint was getting so pissed that no amount of mushy burrito could make him keep his mouth shut. “You’re not leaving him in the living room?” Grabbing for Bucky’s elbow...to shake him out of it...to do _something_...he only managed get out, “Dude, I’m worried about…” before Bucky jerked violently away and stood up.

“He needs me!” Bucky screamed. “I’m not going anywhere!”

The whole house went silent. No more murmurs from Mr. Barnes, no more clipped instructions from the uptight lawyers, no more calm tones from Steve...they’d all stopped, and Clint could only stare in disbelief as Bucky turned away and walked through the archway without a backwards glance.

Smashing the burrito against the plate, Clint tried not to look when the phone lit up again...but he couldn’t stop himself...he didn’t have the strength.

         TJ: I’m here 2 talk about it if u want.

The saddest movies...the best ones that make you cry for days afterwards...usually end with a sweeping wide shot of someone walking into the distance. Superheroes flying away from family towards a greater sense of responsibility, childhood best friends ripped apart by who they’d become when childish things had been set aside, lovers torn apart by tragic circumstance...Clint had always loved those kinds of endings. He’d spent zillions of movie nights debating over pizza and weed with Bucky, Skinner, and Daisy about their stupid appreciation for non-authentic happy endings; arguing that the directors who were brave enough to let their hero walk away at the end deserved massive street cred for rejecting the typical, formulaic Hollywood sap.

But now? Well, now, Clint could only laugh at his own ignorance.

 

_Scene:_

As Prince’s ‘Purple Rain’ swells in the background, Bucky turns away from his _best friend_ and straightens his muscular shoulders into a solid, broad line. To the viewer, he appears taller, stronger, and determined, but, in sharp contrast, the camera pulls back to reveal that Clint’s shoulders are sagging forward towards the table. As the lights dim to black all around them, a hazy spotlight rises to illuminate Bucky’s bare skin as he walks towards the unknown. There’s nothing Clint can do but watch in despair as Bucky disappears into the distance, leaving only remnants of purple rain in his wake.

The final seconds of the film are nothing but a solid black screen and the shadow of something that could have been...that _should_ have been. The song rises, and every goddamn lyric makes the audience weep...

  


_I never meant to cause you any sorrow_

_I never meant to cause you any pain_

_I only wanted to see you laughing_

_I only wanted to see you laughing in the purple rain_

 

_I never wanted to be your weekend lover_

_I only wanted to be some kind of friend_

_Baby, I could never steal you from another_

_It’s such a shame our friendship had to end_

 

_Honey, I know, I know_

_I know times are changing_

_It’s time we all reach out for something new_

_That means you too_

_You say you want a leader_

_But you can’t seem to make up your mind_

_I think you’d better close it_

_And let me guide you to the purple rain_

  


The saddest movies...the best ones that make you cry for days afterwards...the ones that Clint had championed with endless bluster...well, they could all go fuck themselves in the ass with their Oscars.

Tears streamed down his face as Clint helplessly watched _his_ _everything_ disappear into the distance, and he suddenly understood the beauty of happy endings.

He’d been so wrong.

*****

  
  


“He needs me! I’m not going anywhere!”

Natasha jumped as Bucky’s voice echoed loud and clear from the kitchen, and Steve’s hand froze halfway through another signature. Every bit of movement in the room had stopped right along with him, like his pen was magically controlling everyone’s puppet strings, and her worry grew. Clint was in there with him. The smell of weed wafting through the vents and the low tones of their voices occasionally drifting over top of the legal mumbo jumbo proved that. But those words had exploded out of nowhere like a gunshot, and Natasha couldn’t stop herself from imagining Clint’s head snapping backwards as Bucky’s bullet blasted through his brain.

Sitting on the carpet with her legs in lotus position, she’d been focusing on the feeling of her hip joints expanding and opening as she’d listened to Steve Rogers making the biggest decision of his life. To press charges or take the deal? There were endless scenarios, overwhelming numbers and percentages, discussions about taxation, investment, pain and suffering, charitable donations, confidentiality clauses...none of them topics that an eighteen-year-old should be dealing with. Especially on their own. But her dad was sitting next to Steve on the couch and reading every word of what seemed like _hundreds_ of documents that had been spread across their scratched up coffee table. Her father was a saint in reading glasses, rescuing another orphan from uncertainty and pain.

Over the last few days in stuffy hospital waiting rooms, stuck in rush hour traffic in the car, and in hushed tones after Bucky’d fallen asleep last night, Natasha and her dad had talked in depth about the possibility of inviting Steve to live under their roof permanently, the disturbing way that Bucky had come apart at the hospital, and how her brother had just seemed ‘off’ since last weekend. Both of them were so worried that they’d seriously discussed closing ranks...but her dad wasn’t the type of person to ignore someone who needed help. If he was, she’d still be in Russia.

Suddenly, Bucky came into view down the hallway...in his _underwear_! Stalking towards them, he completely ignored the men surrounding Steve and sat down on the bottom of the stairs just out of her view. From this angle Natasha could barely see his feet and legs sticking out from behind the wall, but the warm expression spreading across Steve’s face made it obvious that he could see all of Bucky just fine. Steve offered him a little smile before declaring, “I’ve decided what I’m going to do.”

“Thank _god_ !” Tony groaned, shoving his sunglasses back over his eyes and slumping down in the armchair. “I really thought that you were gonna be _authentically_ white trash at my next white trash party.”

It was unnerving that nobody responded to either statement. The body attached to the feet remained quiet, and it was like Steve and Tony hadn’t spoken at all. The lawyers resumed their paper shuffling, plans proceeded to be made, her dad continued squinting through his reading glasses at the tiny print, and Clint still hadn’t come out of the kitchen. Natasha pushed her knees all the way to the floor as Steve continued talking to her brother like they were the only two people in the room.

“It’s the right thing to do, Buck. As much as I’d like Alexander to rot in jail and die a slow and painful death, it’s just…” Steve sighed, lining up the tip of the fancy fountain pen to the place where he’d paused his signature. Finishing the looping lines without looking at Bucky, he continued, “It’s...this will help a _lot_ of people.”

“You’re just gonna let him walk free? To get away with almost killing you?” Bucky’s voice sounded like it was coming from far away, even though he was just on the other side of the wall, sitting on the creaky step that Natasha had tiptoed over a thousand times before.

Another paper was slid in front of Steve and signed...then another...and another, like his hand was part of an automated assembly line. There was no hesitation as Steve’s hand moved...no pause as he said, “If I can help other kids escape the kind of life I’ve had to endure for the past six years, then I’m gonna do it. I’ve had them change the paperwork, Buck. Ten grand of the fifteen-thousand a month stipend is gonna go directly to LGBTQ causes that help people like us. It’s going straight to them...to kids in need...and trust me, that’s gonna be so much worse for Alexander than making this whole mess public. It makes all of _this_ worth it.”

Gesturing at his face with his broken arm, Steve winced when his finger accidentally caught on one of the stitches, and Natasha cringed. Twenty-three stitches were holding him together, but Steve seemed to be wearing them like a badge of honor; an accomplishment that had led him to this end. She’d known Rogers for a very long time, but watching his sturdy hand signing paper after paper, Natasha felt like she was seeing the real Steve Rogers for the very first time.

“You really think it’s the right thing to do?” Bucky’s voice was quiet, but Steve honed in on it immediately.

“Yes. I’m even giving back the Escalade and negotiating for a Prius instead,” he chuckled. “I don’t want his dirty money, Buck. But if I can do my part to help other kids feel safe, that means more to me than any satisfaction I’d get from seeing the prick behind bars.”

“He’ll be able to go to college, Bucky,” her dad interjected.

Tony, clapping his hands together, quipped, “And he won’t have to moonlight as a sexy stripper at an underground gay club to do it! Not that Steve lacks the skills to make men, boys, ladies, girls, and every variety of every gender empty their pockets _and_ their bank accounts, but it would be pretty hard for Steve to work the pole with the cast and all.”

“Shut up, Tony,” Steve snapped.

“Oh c’mon, don’t be a sourpuss. I’m a realist, and you, my friend, are in dire need of some real, honest to goodness, non-sugar coated truth. Who knows if that wrist is gonna heal up right? Not you, not me, not your annoyingly handsome _boo_. But I’m sure we can all agree that you can kiss those fancy swimming scholarships goodbye if your wicked stepfather jacked up your arm for life. This deal with Pierce is your glass slipper, and your boyfriend needs to suck it up and compliment you on how pretty the thing looks on your foot!”

Steve set his jaw as he placed the pen on another blank line. “Are you done?”

“I just want Bucky to think about your situation logically, and, now that I’ve made my point, you may proceed.” Tony waved his arm like a king granting his court permission to dance, and Natasha had the overwhelming urge to kick him. But as much as it sucked to admit it, he was right.

“I’m talking to _Steve_ .” Bucky’s voice was a little louder this time, but not enough to overpower Tony’s obnoxiousness outright; more like he was subverting him from below. “Is this the right thing for _you_ , Steve?”

Natasha folded her legs up like a pretzel and pushed herself into a deep spinal stretch. Her back hurt. Her ass hurt. They’d been doing this for forty-five minutes. She was supposed to be working on her new contemporary audition piece and helping Clint with his career path project. But she wasn’t. Three of her vertebra audibly cracked, and she got the sense that something in the room was shifting.  

The main lawyer...Mark, if she remembered correctly...pointed at more spots for Steve to initial, and he quickly flicked his wrist until a loopy ‘SR’ had appeared on each line. The pen had already been capped when Rogers gazed towards the stairs and said, “Yeah, Buck. It is.”

Twisting the other way, Natasha stared at the mismatched bricks on their broken fireplace and waited. Waited for Bucky to lose his mind again. Waited for Steve to give another impassioned speech. Waited for Clint to show his face. She waited to see if Bucky wanted to be part of Steve’s fairy tale. Tony’s glass slippers were already firmly on Steve’s feet, he’d gone right ahead and had squeezed his enviably tiny waist into a puffy, blue ball gown, and had made the decision to jump headfirst into his magical pumpkin carriage...and now he was hanging out the door with an adorable little grin, waiting to see if Bucky was gonna cinch himself into a tight corset and follow him to the castle.

She could hear Bucky’s bare feet tapping on the wooden floor, finding their way towards a steady pattern as the seconds ticked by, and she wondered if four stockings would be hanging from the mantle this Christmas? Maybe a fifth for Clint? Would the house wake up at the crack of dawn to find them stuffed to the brim with her dad’s traditional naval oranges, Starbucks gift cards, Dove chocolate, and a wide variety of stupidly patterned socks? Or was her brother’s response going to mean that the three hooks jammed into the wood would be sufficient for another year?

Untwisting her body, Natasha caught sight of Clint as he _finally_ stepped out of the kitchen. His hair was pulled back in a tight bun, and, even from this distance, she could tell that he’d been crying. She wished that she was surprised...that she hadn’t stepped willingly into her own pumpkin and mouse filled illusion...but there was nothing shocking about Clint’s tears.

The air in the room changed suddenly as Bucky stood up and stepped onto the carpet; truly entering the living room for the first time. The corners of his lips turned up the slightest bit as he said, “Then I’ve got your back.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah, I’m sure. I see who you are inside, Steve. That’s why I love you.”

“What do you see?” Steve half chuckled. “A dumbass who got the shit kicked out of him for money?”

“No,” Bucky replied with a sad chuckle of his own. “I see someone who does the right thing even when it hurts.” Her brother curled his toes into the carpet as he looked Steve right in the eye. “ _That’s_ who I believe in.”

Pumpkin carriages for everyone! Bloodhounds who steered them down their fateful paths. Mice who transformed rags into dresses made for the pure of heart. Bluebirds and music, happiness and hope...the Cinderella dream was intoxicating...but there was also Lucifer the fat cat, waiting to gobble everyone up. Every fairytale has it’s own version of Lucifer...the real danger comes from not knowing his face.

She knew that she should be watching her brother...that she should feel moved by his little speech and the loving way that he was staring across the room into Rogers’ gooey heart eyes...but she was distracted by the sound of Clint kicking one of Bucky’s checkered Vans into the front door. It had hit hard and was immediately followed by both of Bucky’s blue Doc Marten’s. Natasha stared at her boyfriend, who instead of looking her way was scowling at those unmatched shoes, and, as he aggressively smoothed his hands over his hair, she understood that her magic was wearing off already. She wasn’t an _idiot_...well, that wasn’t entirely true...after all, she’d given herself permission to fall for Clint in the first place.

The seven men in the room stood up and congregated in front of the stairs, their legs obscuring Natasha’s view of the eighth: neatly pressed blue slacks, Tony’s high fashion dress pants, her dad’s wrinkled khakis from Target, Steve’s bare calves covered in tiny light blond hairs, and, finally, her brother’s long, naked legs. They all criss-crossed in front of her, shaking hands and bidding one another farewell, and only allowing her to catch small glimpses of Clint’s torn jeans through the triangles of negative space. The angular frames were fitting. _Poetic_ . Exemplifying the difference between stolen afternoon kisses when she and Clint had been blissfully _alone_ and the overwhelming claustrophobia of the moments when they _weren’t_...

  
  
  


“This t-shirt is really yellow,” Natasha giggled, tugging playfully at Clint’s collar. “It looks like an overripe banana.”

“I don’t have mushy brown spots all over me. What you talkin’ about, woman?”

He pushed her backwards underneath the wide desk and kissed her nose. It was a tight squeeze for sure; between all the cords, chairs, random discarded script pages, a pack of Doublemint gum, and a broken fan, there was barely room for them to fit. But if they didn’t want to get caught they had to stay out of view. Skipping fourth hour was risky and irresponsible, but she didn’t care. It was also fun and exciting.

Bucky’d fallen asleep across her lap when they’d FaceTimed last night, and she’d wisely suggested this little plan to Clint before they’d signed off. Step one had been bribing Banner to hand over his key to Eaton’s media production room in exchange for the quarter ounce of magic mushrooms that Clint’d had stashed in his freezer. Apparently, they’d been leftover from the night he and Bucky had ‘tripped balls at the Knife Party show’. Whatever. They’d done the trick, and now Natasha had moved on to step two: Clint’s strong hands squeezing her ass, and his tongue doing wonderful things to her ear. Mission accomplished.

Had she gone out of her way to make this little adventure happen? Yes. Had she worn tight black yoga pants and a wide necked sweatshirt on purpose? Absolutely. She wanted him. She’d wanted him for a long time. And now that she had him, Natasha couldn’t stop thinking about the way Clint’s damp skin had felt sliding against her body when he’d made love to her yesterday, or how his wet blue hair had dripped water all over her breasts before he’d used his talented tongue to lick up every last drop. The truth was, Natasha _craved_ him, and if she had to work a little magic to get him alone? Well, there was no shame in that. Clint’s fingers were perfectly digging into her ass while he sucked on her collarbone, and she didn’t care if someone walked in on them. The motion of Clint’s body was _that_ intoxicating, and the things he could do with his mouth blew her mind every time his lips touched her skin.

“You know I’m sexy in whatever I wear,” he chuckled before swirling his tongue around her diamond stud and pulling her further into his lap.

Trying not to moan, Natasha chided, “True, but I’m still questioning your taste level.”

His dick was getting hard beneath her, and her efforts to stay quiet were quickly failing.

“Question Bucky’s taste then,” Clint hummed, letting his mouth slide down her neck and nuzzling the collar of her shirt out of the way to bite the strap of her pink bra. “He’s the one who picked it out.”

Staring up at the rows of studio lights attached to the ceiling, Natasha tried really hard not to let it bother her...but it fucking bothered her! Bucky loved bright colors, so it made perfect sense that he’d want to dress Clint up in every color of the rainbow. She _knew_ this. But it was becoming harder not to wonder if her brother was always going to be there when she and Clint were together. It wasn’t the endless memories of their wild youth that poured out of Clint’s mouth constantly, or the stupid dick jokes that Bucky had already tortured her with...it wasn’t even the fact that she was kissing the same lips that her brother had tasted a hundred times...Natasha could handle all that.

It was the little things; like Clint seductively tugging on her bra while casually mentioning that _Bucky’d_ picked out his hideous yellow shirt. It was the way that Clint had turned sideways in the backseat of her dad’s car when they’d picked him up for school this morning, shoving his black boots underneath _Bucky’s_ empty seatbelt as they’d crossed the Brooklyn Bridge. It was the way Clint had stared at _Bucky’s_ empty seat during lunch whenever there was a pause in their conversation. Natasha wasn’t an idiot...or maybe she was.

Clint had taken her to the art room to see Daisy’s pictures. He’d told her before the dance that she wasn’t going to be his first. He’d even told her about the fucked up situation in Tribeca, including the parts where he cried into Bucky’s hair and had let Steve touch his dick. He’d been honest with her, but as his wonderful tongue dipped low enough to catch the top of her nipple, Natasha wondered if Clint was being honest with himself.

Taking his beautiful face in her hands, Natasha pushed him backwards to really drink him in. He was so full of character, the roundness of his cheeks hiding the angles underneath, and the sparkle in his eyes always suggested a hint of mischief. She loved him. She had for a long time.

It was strange that she’d watched him grow up; transforming right before her eyes from an annoying, skater kid who got Bucky into all sorts of trouble, to an annoying, punk kid who helped Bucky get _out_ of all sorts of trouble, and, finally, to an annoying, breathtaking man who made her heart flutter every time they crossed paths. Natasha had known that her brother was in love with him...she’d known the _whole time_...but that hadn’t stopped her from wanting Clint too. The heart wants what it wants and all that jazz.

But Natasha hadn’t said a word about her feelings...not when she’d accidentally seen Bucky giving him a blowjob through a cracked bedroom door, not when Clint had skipped an archery tournament to sit with Bucky and her dad in a dilapidated theater to watch her dance Off-Broadway for the first time, not when he’d carried her piggyback during an April thunderstorm so she wouldn’t ruin her suede boots in the puddles, and not when Clint had started flirting with her over the summer. Even then, with his charm aimed in her direction for the first time, she’d played it off; pretending that she _hadn’t_ been dreaming about wearing his leather jacket and imagining how his lips would feel against hers since freshman year.

It was _because_ she knew that she’d kept her mouth shut...until Bucky had found Steve.

“Hey, strawberry. You look like you’re a million miles away.” Clint tried to nip at her fingers, but she held his face firm in her hands.

Wrapping her legs around his butt and crossing them at the ankles, Natasha asked, “What gave you the courage to kiss me the first time?”

“Oh, that’s easy,” Clint laughed. “You said I could.”

“I did not! You took me to McDonalds, bought me a strawberry milkshake, _stole_ my strawberry milkshake, then kissed me when I bitched about it.”

“Yeah, but you let me _buy_ you the strawberry milkshake in the first place. That’s how I knew that you’d finally succumbed to my advances. Then you put your gorgeous red lips around that straw and inched your fingers closer to mine on the counter...” Clint mimicked the motion along her shoulder blades and whispered, “You have to admit, the moment was electric.”

 _Electric._ It was the perfect word to describe their first kiss. But it was also the perfect word to describe everything about Clint Barton.

He was the kind of person whose mere presence demanded everyone’s attention, but who never seemed to notice or care when everyone looked...the kind of person who gave people cute nicknames like ‘strawberry’ to make them feel special, but was equally endearing when he called you a ‘fuckface’, the kind of person who spoon fed his best friend ice cream every time that he felt sad... Clint Barton was the rare kind of person whose heart might be big enough to love two people at the same time.

Natasha wasn’t an idiot...or maybe she was.

  


 

Now, Natasha pushed her feet out in front of her on the carpet, flexing and pointing her toes as she watched her _boyfriend_ through the sea of legs. Many things were happening all at once. Clint snatched Bucky’s mustard colored Kurt Cobain cardigan off the floor and tossed it at Steve, who easily caught it one handed then awkwardly tried to wrap it around Bucky’s shoulders. Her dad was shaking everyone’s hand and saying ‘thank you’ a lot, and Tony did some sort of victory shimmy as he guided the lawyers towards the door, yelling, “Nice doing business with you! Steve, don’t forget to send me a thank you card for making sure that you’re set for life. You’re such a self sacrificial turd, but I love you, man.” Pausing, Tony gave her brother a once over before making his final exit. “Bucky...I guess you’re okay too. But only if LoLo Kitty forgives me for my inexcusable tardiness. You wouldn’t believe how hard it was to convince him to go out with me in the first place, so if I strike out tonight it’s _totally_ your fault, and then I’ll have to switch back to hating you. I’ll shoot you a text later to let you know where you stand.”

“What’s a Lola kitty?” Bucky wisely asked, and Steve snorted.

“Hopefully the name I’m gonna tattoo across my chest as a declaration of my undying love someday.”

Four voices said, “What?” simultaneously, matching the question in her head perfectly.

“You’ll find out soon enough. Keep checking your mail for our Save the Date postcard. I’ve always wanted a spring wedding, you know, with doves and shit.” Tony was almost to the door, she could tell by the echo in the narrow hallway. “Do you think having Scandinavian genealogy gives you a predisposition to easily assemble IKEA furniture? I guess we’ll find out after the honeymoon. Later, gators.”

As soon as her dad shut the door, Natasha folded her body forward and pressed her cheek against her shins, pointing and flexing, and imagining the taste of strawberry ice cream.

“Are you okay, Steve?” Clint asked... _because he was the kind of person who genuinely cared if the boy that Bucky loved was suffering._

“I think I need some more Tylenol.”

“I’ll grab some,” her dad quickly said...because he was the kind of father she’d dreamt about when she’d shivered through the long Russian nights with tiny Bucky curled around her back. Phil hurried up the staircase, his shoes landing on the creaky boards and making his presence known with each step.

Natasha rolled her neck to the left as Clint tugged at the pocket of the cardigan. “Bucky, c’mon man, button this. Seriously, I already had to zip up your boyfriend and now I’m gonna have to button up your Cobain knock-off too. Do I look like a kindergarten teacher or something?”

Clint started from the bottom and carefully pushed each button through its hole... _because he was the kind of person who made sure that people were warm and covered._

“I’m sorry,” Steve mumbled, sounding...embarrassed? Thankful? A combination of both? Natasha dug her burgundy nails into the carpet to stretch her muscles even further, pulling until her nose touched the floor. She didn’t need to see any more.

“Shut up, Steve. You’re completely fucked up, so I think you can let me help with some zippers and buttons.” Clint chuckled a little... _because he was the type of person who could take charge if he needed to._ “Go upstairs. Get in bed. Food and medicine will follow shortly. You’re both ridiculous, and you’d better believe that I expect an endless supply of Anthony’s pizza to be hand delivered by the both of you _any_ time I ask, day or night, from this moment forward.”

“I already bring you Anthony’s pizza whenever you ask,” Bucky laughed. Her brother laughed because it was true. He’d been doing it for years.

“Yeah, but now Steve’s my pizza slave too,” Clint said... _because he was the kind of person who made people laugh, even in the most stressful situations._

“You know I love you, right?” Bucky murmured, and, because Natasha wasn’t an idiot, she told herself that it was okay. Because it _was_ ... _and Clint was the kind of person who deserved love from everyone._

“Of course I do, Joey Sunshine,” Clint ordered. “Now hop your little kangaroo ass up the stairs and take this giant dipshit with you.” The way that Clint had said those words was full of warmth... _because he was the kind of person who loved sunshine as much as he loved strawberries._

Natasha only released the stretch after two more sets of footsteps had hit the top of the stairs and Clint’s boots had appeared in front of her pointed toes. Letting go of the tension (but not the pose), she sighed as Clint kneeled to firmly run his hands over her shoulders and down her back. His silver lock dangled against her hair as he squeezed and kneaded, just like he had under the desk, as he whispered, “Rough day, huh?”

“Yes.” Her spine had turned into mushy jello and she let it collapse even further between her thighs.

“C’mon, strawberry, I’m worried that you’re gonna get stuck that way, and how the heck am I supposed to kiss you like that?”

Clint’s words were full of magic... _because he was the kind of person who always knew the right thing to say._

Reluctantly, she pushed her legs outward into a center split, then slid out from beneath his hands to sit up. “You want to kiss me right now?”

Crawling forwards on hands and knees, Clint quickly pressed their foreheads together. “Bucky will be okay for awhile, so _yes_ , I want to kiss you. I wanna kiss this nose, and this chin, I wanna kiss your ears, and, most of all, your delicious red lips. So, you gonna let me? Hmm?”

He ghosted over her face, centimeters away and hovering, and waited for her reply…and she tried, _really_ tried, to focus on the sweet words and the way that his hands had found her neck, but it was hard to ignore that telling phrase...

Clint wanted to kiss her only after he was sure that Bucky was okay... _because he was the kind of person who knew his priorities, even if they were subconscious._

His warm, magical tongue slid into her mouth, and she let it. Natasha wasn’t an idiot...until she chose to be.

*****

 

  
“I still don’t know why you shoved your cast into my hoodie. I swear to god, Steve, how the fuck am I supposed to get this off!?” Bucky had stripped back down to his underwear the second they’d crossed into the bedroom and now he was diligently trying his best to inch the blue and white striped cotton over Steve’s cast without hurting him. He was doing a halfway decent job despite his never ending complaining. It made Steve feel lighter than air.

“Really, Bucky. Excuse me for thinking that a team of very expensive lawyers showing up on the doorstep to finalize my entire future was a clothing worthy event! Tony might have appreciated your outfit, but presenting yourself in a pair of red underwear didn’t seem to impress anyone else in the room.”

“ _You_ weren’t impressed?”

“Okay, fine. Tony and I appreciated your outfit.”

“Mother fucking fuckity fuck fuck!” Bucky had given up on gentle and had resorted to yanking as hard as he could. It didn’t help matters that he’d pulled the hoodie off inside out and the final few inches weren’t letting go for anything. Leaning his full body weight backwards, Bucky suspended himself diagonally in plank position. He’d obviously forgotten that Steve’s wrist was _broken_ , but the comedy trumped the pain. He looked so damn cute in those tiny boxer briefs with his hair wildly tied in a knot on top of his head! Plus, Bucky had grabbed a neon pink bandana off the neck of his guitar and had tied it around his neck, which was driving Steve wild. His cock was considering getting hard when Bucky scrunched up his face and yelled, “Why won’t this come off!?”

“Because it’s stuck?” Steve cracked up. Signing those papers had left him feeling relieved and almost silly; like making those decisions had turned him back into the innocent boy who’d happily sat in a patch of sunshine drawing a ripe, red tomato with his brand new colored pencils.

“No shit, Sherlock. I hadn’t noticed.” Bucky gave one final tug before stumbling backwards, leaving the fabric dangling from Steve’s wrist. “I give up. You’re just gonna have to stay like that forever.”

Bucky spun around towards his dresser, and Steve instantly noticed a bruise on the small of his back. It wasn’t something little that could have been caused by stumbling into the corner of a desk or getting bumped by an overfilled backpack at Eaton. The long line of blue was running horizontally across Bucky’s olive skin and it looked like someone had painted it with a brush.

“Baby, how did you hurt your back?”

“I hurt my back?”

“You have a bruise.”

“I do?” Bucky swung his head back and forth over his shoulders, like he truly believed that he was capable of seeing his lower back. Unbelievably, it took at least twenty seconds for him to give up on his futile attempt to morph into an owl and use his hands instead. When Bucky’s fingers found the straight blue line, he yelped, “Fuck! I do.”

Dragging the hoodie along with him...because he didn’t have a choice... Steve added his own fingers to the mix. “Let me look. Bucky, stand still.”

“Nope. No can do.” Escaping Steve’s fingers, Bucky spun back around with an overflowing handful of Kettle Corn from the huge bowl that Clint and Natasha had delivered. An impish smile pushed up his cheeks before Bucky threw it right at Steve’s bare chest. “We have way too much to talk about for me to stand still.”

Flicking the single kernel that had gotten stuck in his chest hair, Steve took the bait. “Like?”

“Like my dad saying you could stay.”

After he’d swallowed the Extra Strength Tylenol, Mr. Barnes had told Steve that he could stay for as long as he needed while Bucky had bounced up and down on the bed, intermittently pounding his hands on the ceiling, spinning the disco ball, and doing the running man in the middle of the comforter. The hug Steve had given Bucky’s dad had been impulsive, painful, and full of relief.

It was strange knowing that he’d never have to suffer through another night of restless nightmares underneath that stark, white ceiling again. Now he would wake up to glittering explosions of light bouncing around Bucky’s room...around _their_ room...after a night full of comforting dreams about long hugs, homemade lasagna, and his white Nikes mixed into the mountain of shoes downstairs. Now, instead of waking up and pressing his body against the cold glass to stare at the people jogging through Central Park to make himself feel like he had a heartbeat, Steve could open his eyes and move closer to Bucky’s warm body, feeling both of their hearts beating in sync. Steve grinned like an idiot, because instead of fists pummeling his face, he was existing in a space where a weirdo wearing a neon pink bandana was throwing popcorn at his chest. The whole thing felt like pink cotton candy, and Steve leaned forward to kiss the cupid bow lips that matched the sugary swirls.

“Mmm,” Steve moaned, resting his hoodie imprisoned arm on Bucky’s ass. “Your dad is so wonderful.”

“You shouldn’t say that when you’re kissing me.”

“It’s revenge for the ‘I love you to the moon and back’ line.”

“That was totally different!” Bucky pouted. “I wasn’t talking _specifically_ about your mom!”

Even beneath the cast...and the yard of striped cotton attached to it...Steve cool feel Bucky’s hips moving forward with a gentle pulse. “Yeah,” Steve snickered. “I guess mine is significantly more creepy.”

“You think?” Bucky made a show of rubbing his own half hard dick on Steve’s thigh before reaching around to grab the can of Dr. Pepper that had arrived with the popcorn. He took a big swig and burped before offering it to Steve. “So you’re not keeping the stupid spaceship?”

“No, he really has to buy me a Prius.”

“You seriously signed an official document that said you wanted a Prius? Tony’s actually paying those lawyers to type that shit up?” Chugging the last of the pop and throwing the can somewhere near the garbage, Bucky kept on going. “Leonardo DiCaprio would be so proud of you if he knew about your commitment to the environment. We should tweet about it and see if a shiny ecological medal shows up in the mail. I bet if you get enough retweets, Jack will attach a big blue diamond.”

Steve lowered himself into Bucky’s pink chair... _their_ pink chair...and chuckled. “You know me. Always trying to reduce my carbon footprint.”

Rolling his eyes, the naughty comedian grabbed two huge handfuls of popcorn, leaving a trail on the carpet as he marched over and dumped them on Steve’s head. “You, sir, are a big, fat liar, liar with your pants on fire. You decided to make Tony’s thousand dollar an hour lawyers negotiate for a Prius because you knew how much it would bug the shit out of Pierce. I dare you to tell me I’m wrong. No, scratch that. I _double_ dog dare you.”        

“That might have been a teeny tiny part of it,” Steve admitted sheepishly as he plucked a few kernels off his shorts and shoved them into his mouth. Forcing Alexander to buy him the sixteenth birthday present that he’d really wanted was sort of like punching him in the face. Sort of.

Bucky laughed as he slid onto Steve’s lap, picking his own pieces out of Steve’s hair. “For such a tall, strapping young man, you’re such a little shit.”

“Eating popcorn out of my hair is gross.”

“Three second rule!”

“That doesn’t apply to hair!”

Quickly digging out more pieces like an eager little squirrel, Bucky kept shoving them in his cheeks until his mouth was overflowing. He was so disgusting. God, Steve loved him.

“Also, Stevie,” Bucky mumbled. “You know my dad didn’t just mean that you could couch surf and steal cereal until we finally get sick of you using up all the hot water and kick your ass out on the street, right? I’m pretty sure that you’ve already moved in permanently and we can make this whole thing Facebook official. Like, you’ve been promoted to my super sexy live-in boyfriend who gets to help me do the laundry and take out the smelly garbage. Oh! _Please_ tell me that you’re gonna make Pierce send your five-thousand bucks to this address every month! Oh my _god_ , can you imagine how much that would piss him off!? I can see it now! His hand shaking and the veins popping out on his forehead when he scrawls ‘Steve Rogers, care of Bucky Barnes’ on the envelope on the first day of the month! He might even stroke out knowing that he’s funding daily life in your super gay love den!”

“No, sadly it goes directly into a bank account, but…” Steve was hung up on ‘moved in’. “How did I move in? I don’t have anything to move…”

“You’re here, right?”

“Obviously.”

“You’re not planning on sneaking out in the middle of the night and walking back to Manhattan in a pair of my Halloween cat socks are you?”

“No.”

“You _do_ want me to freshly prepare you an enormous bowl of Lucky Charms for breakfast every single Saturday from here until the end of time, right?”

“Um, yes.”

“Then it’s settled. We’re living in sin, me caso dude caso.”

“What?”

“I’m inviting you to live in sin with me, Steve...in _Spanish_ , because I’m cool like that.”

If signing the paperwork had been cotton candy, hearing those words was the childhood joy of lying in the middle of a merry-go-round on a bright summer day; the colors of the slides, swing sets, and blooming trees blending together in circular lines as solid hands spun Steve faster and faster. Looping a finger underneath Bucky’s bandana, Steve shook the rest of the popcorn out of his hair before gently tugging him into a kiss. He squeezed their bodies together as much as the cast, hoodie, popcorn, bandages, stitches, and their quickly growing erections would allow, and Steve got lost in the overwhelming dizziness. “God, baby. I love you so much. But if you’re planning on using your considerable cooking skills to spoil me with Lucky Charms every Saturday, then I’m gonna wake up early to cook you waffles with fresh blueberries on Sundays.”

“I don’t like blueberries.”

Bucky had said it sharply, and Steve did a double take to make sure that he’d heard him correctly. But his face was lit up with a wide, sunshine smile.

“Oh, I thought you…”

“I want whip cream and chocolate chips,” Bucky interrupted, stretching his arms high above his head and looking at Steve through lowered lashes. “Will you make me waffles with chocolate chips and extra whip... _baby_?”

Sometimes a merry-go-round is spinning so fast that everything gets blurry and you miss the details of the world around you. Important clues are enveloped by the spinning colors, and the wonderful weightlessness in your stomach makes even the darkest objects appear light and whimsical. Creamy spirals of whipped cream sprayed on top of a homemade waffle with a chocolate chip heart lovingly arranged on top, Sunday breakfast in _their_ bed lovingly served to the groggy boy with the wild bird’s nest hair, and lingering kisses that tasted like syrup, butter, and chocolate... the overwhelming sweetness of everything making you forget about the carton of blueberries that had spilled underneath the kitchen table.

Steve thought that he saw something in Bucky’s eyes in that moment; a midnight blue circle invading the center of his iris to create a second darker ring, and he tried to slow the swirls of color long enough to figure out if what he was seeing was real. But the second he leaned forward to try to focus on the darkening shades, Bucky blinked, and the only thing that Steve saw was Bucky’s normal bright blue spinning into spirals of cotton candy pink as the exhilaration from the merry-go-round took over.

                                           

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guess what I love? Kudos! Guess what I love even more? Comments!!! Wanna chat about sexy boys and their drama? Looking to vent about my angsty ways? Well, hit me up! I love to talk about all things Stucky...and Clint. Also, answer this chapter’s trivia questions in the comments and I’ll send you virtual goodies & mad respect!
> 
> TRIVIA  
> 1\. What am I referencing when Bucky says, “You need to use more lube. You know that’s the only way to really get it in there.”  
> 2\. In the kitchen scene I have Bucky run into the refrigerator. Any idea what inspired that?  
> 3\. What TV show did young Bucky watch to come up with the line, “What do you talk about, Willis?”  
> 4\. Why is it kinda mean that I chose blueberries as the fruit that triggers Bucky?
> 
> MOOD MUSIC: [JessieLucidYouTube](https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCjADIMzQjvmnAs-nGoSG0JQ?view_as=public)
> 
> Bucky POV  
> *Thirty Seconds to Mars- The Kill  
> *Foo Fighters- The Sky is a Neighborhood  
> *The White Stripes- Dead Leaves and the Dirty Ground  
> *Son Lux- Cage of Bones
> 
> Clint POV  
> *Nine Inch Nails- The Day the World Went Away  
> *A Perfect Circle- 3 Libras  
> *Staind- Outside  
> *Highly Suspect- Little One  
> *Prince- Purple Rain (cued in chapter)
> 
> Natasha POV  
> *Aron Wright- You’re the Last Thing on My Mind  
> *Rihanna- What Now?  
> *The Weeknd- Prisoner (feat. Lana Del Rey)
> 
> Steve POV  
> *Sleeping With Sirens- Satellites  
> *Sleeping With Sirens- Déjá Vu  
> *Major Lazer- Powerful (feat. Ellie Goulding & Tarrus Riley)
> 
> Find my Stucky Art on Instagram & Tumblr
> 
>  
> 
> [JessieLucidArtInstagram](https://www.instagram.com/jessielucidart/)  
> [lucidnancyboyTumbr](https://lucidnancyboy.tumblr.com)
> 
>  
> 
> Next up! Halloween!!!!!!!!! XOXO


	21. A Spoonful of Sugar Makes the Medicine Go Down

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all, props to my kickass beta [Lorien](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Lorien/works)  
> who sends me articles about Armie Hammer’s balls falling out of his short shorts (seriously, Google it), teaches me about goulash, and puts up with my angsty writing like a real champ. She does all of that AND draws gorgeous Stucky art too! Send her some love here  
> [drjezdzanyart](https://drjezdzanyart.tumblr.com)
> 
> Secondly, this chapter might require a little homework on your part. If you’ve never seen the movie ‘Donnie Darko’ (which I highly recommend by the way) you might want to check out a few scenes on YouTube. I added the trailer for the film’s remastered 2017 re-release at the beginning of my mood music playlist. The movie plays a major part in Bucky and Steve’s journey this chapter. 
> 
> You can find my mood music playlist here [JessieLucidYouTube](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLbGnycMfOsiAUHpM-o_iv3gefEDgLC0cm) I’ve listed the songs and the specific POVs that they inspired in the end notes. If you’d like to really get into our boy’s heads, throw it on while reading.
> 
> Shout outs: I must thank the wonderful Brenda [Brenda](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Brenda/pseuds/Brenda) for making a  
> random ‘Sparkle Fever’ joke one night that got my mind rolling in the ‘Donnie Darko’ direction. This chapter is all her fault. LOL. Seriously, go read ALL of her stories. She's amazing!
> 
> And to [Rancid_Rat6186](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Rancid_Rat6186/pseuds/Rancid_Rat6186/works) for suggesting Steve's amazing ‘Revenge Prius’ (I maybe added a ‘Revenge Harley’ too). Your hilarious ideas give me so much inspiration! HUGS! 
> 
> Finally, thank you to [strangedazey](http://archiveofourown.org/users/strangedazey/pseuds/strangedazey) who suggested that I should call the Barnes' house 'Steve & Bucky's Gay Love Den'. Genius! I've written it into existence and send huge hugs for the idea! :) 
> 
> Last but definitely not least, many of my heavier tags are coming into play. Please be aware and feel free to ask if you need more specifics before reading. Tags: severe PTSD, Dissociative Identity Disorder, implied non-con, cheating (sort of), drug abuse. There’s lots of funny, happy stuff too.

                                                 

When Steve opened his eyes, Little Panda was happily sitting on his chest, and it brought an instant smile to his face. _Funny_ was a great thing to wake up to, and Bucky had made it his personal mission to excel at his new tradition: ‘The Morning Laugh’.

The first morning that Steve had woken up alone in the Barnes’ house... _his_ house...he’d had a moment of panic and pain. Panic, because he hadn’t heard Bucky’s soft snoring behind him, and pain, because he’d quickly flipped over to look for him and had ripped off the oozing scab where his stitches had gotten stuck to the pillow. Not a great start to the morning. But once Steve had calmed his breathing down enough to stumble to the bathroom, he’d encountered a lipstick ‘portrait’ of himself on the mirror. It was still a mystery how Bucky had managed to draw each thick red line in exactly the right spot, so when Steve had absently grabbed for his already wet toothbrush, his reflection had been sporting a spiraling handlebar moustache, dramatic zigzag eyebrows, a polka dot bow tie, and antennas with cartoon eyeballs on top. Every time he’d gone to take a piss that day, Steve had grinned like an idiot; even dragging his index finger through a big glob from the bowtie and smearing it across his lips for no reason at all. But that night Natasha had ruined everything when she’d gone upstairs to shower after her rehearsal. After the yelling had finally subsided, she’d aggressively Windexed the first ‘Morning Laugh’ off the glass, then had poked Bucky in the chest until he’d forked over a crumpled twenty for a new tube of M.A.C Ruby Woo. Apparently, the destruction of an entire tube of expensive lipstick for a ‘stupid’ joke hadn’t been amusing on her end. Such a shame.

Steve closed his eyes again, enjoying the warmth of the comforter as he let himself drift through the memories. Every morning, a different joke had been lying in wait. So far, he’d woken up covered in a giant Pride flag with a handmade ‘Savior of the Gays’ poster taped under Bucky’s ‘Velvet Goldmine’ jerk-off decor. Bucky had drawn huge rainbow bubble letters and had colored the whole thing with crayons. Then, there had been the morning when Steve had stood in the foyer contemplating the vast array of reasons why Bucky might have stuck everyone’s shoes on the coat rack, like they were sad Christmas decorations on a needleless tree, and had unceremoniously dropped the coats into a messy pile underneath. Steve had also spent last Thursday squishing his body against the banister on the stairs, trying not to knock over the twelve rolls of toilet paper that Bucky had stacked like a precarious skyscraper in the middle of the fifth step.

But Steve’s favorite, by far, had been his Monday morning wake-up a couple days ago. He’d wandered into the kitchen in search of something to make his stomach stop rumbling and had discovered hundreds of colorful Post-it notes with ‘Bucky’s! Don’t touch!’ scrawled in the middles. Neon pink, turquoise, lizard green, and bright yellow squares had been stuck haphazardly on every single can, box, bottle, and packet that had contained anything even remotely consumable, including the salt and pepper shakers! Hilariously, at least seven Post-its had been thrown in with the tiny packets of McDonald’s ketchup and Taco Bell mild sauce that populated the overflowing fast food condiment drawer. Steve had laughed so hard that the healing skin on his cheek had threatened to split back open. Pain caused by laughter and joy...that had been something new and welcome.

Steve had been smiling at a box of Ritz Crackers like an idiot when he’d spotted it: a carefully arranged breakfast still-life in the middle of the kitchen table. Sitting next to a huge silver mixing bowl with a soup ladle resting across the rim, a mug with ‘Baby’ era Justin Bieber’s plastered on the front, and a neatly folded ‘Happy Birthday’ napkin with a pattern of red balloons had been an unopened family sized box of Lucky Charms. Nobody could fault Steve for sinking to his knees and crying like a big happy baby, because the yellow Post-it stuck on top of the leprechaun’s face had simply said ‘Steve’s’.

The list went on. Every wonderful morning since Steve had been lucky enough to call these walls, this foundation, this sturdy roof ‘home’, Bucky had dragged his grumpy, zombie ass out of _their_ warm bed extra early to make sure that all of Steve’s days had started with a smile. Glancing out the window, Steve chuckled because the power line that curved and dipped across the slightly leaning poles was lined with sparrows, all squished together and bracing against the fall wind; not a raven in sight. Steve wondered how long it would take for one of the tiny sparrows to freeze to death if they were on their own? Lucky for Steve, even though Bucky’s side of the bed was empty, he felt warm. There truly was safety and comfort in numbers...especially the perfect pair.

If Sam or Tony ever decided to get deep and ask Steve what it was like to be in love, he’d sit them down on a comfy couch with a bowl of Chex Mix and tell them all about the image of Bucky Barnes with bird’s nest hair, wearing weird pajamas pants riding so low that the top of his ass was hanging out, and mumbling orders at his dad and Natasha to stick hundreds of pre-written Post-it notes on cans of baked beans, packages of frozen poppyseed bagels, and a bottle of Hidden Valley Ranch at five o’clock in the morning. _That_ was love, and it was everything that Steve had ever wanted.

Trying not to disturb Little Panda, Steve stretched out his legs and rolled his ankles in a circle. Bucky had already learned Steve’s three favorite sleeping positions: drooling into Bucky’s hair when Steve was the big spoon, drooling all over the pillow when Steve was the little spoon, and, when Bucky wasn’t there, lying flat on his back like a corpse. Despite Steve’s predictability, it was still impressive that Little Panda hadn’t fallen over in the hours since Bucky had left for school. But, then again, he’d had an assist from the DVD that Bucky had wedged between the bunched up comforter and the tiny belly that Steve had grown sitting on his ass for the past two weeks. Bucky must have had a hard time keeping himself from cracking up as he’d used Steve’s new addition to prop Little Panda upright. Chuckling, Steve poked his fingers into his _slightly_ mushy side like a badge of honor; a rebellion in body fat. When you’ve spent _years_ burning off at least a thousand calories a day in a cold swimming pool, pushing your muscles to the breaking point in the weight room five days a week, and running for countless hours as fast as you could through the twists and turns of Central Park to escape your shitty reality, eating your weight in frozen burritos, devouring three helpings of Mr. Barnes’ delicious spaghetti and meatballs, and letting your adorable boyfriend hand feed you warm chocolate chip cookies was a well deserved reward. Those are the kinds of things that happy people are _supposed_ to do, right? Eat. Smile. Laugh. Cuddle. Relax. Grow a little love belly...

When Steve finally got this goddamn cast off and could move around without wincing every three seconds, he was planning on doing something extra special for Bucky. God knows, after all the shit they’d been through in the past month, Bucky Barnes deserved the world _and_ the stars _and_ heaven itself; roll out the trumpeting angels, line the gold streets with gaudy garlands, and throw open the pearly gates...Bucky deserved it all! For days, Steve had been running ideas through his head. It couldn’t be something generic like the time he’d taken Peggy to FAO Schwarz to let her pick out an expensive Valentine’s Day teddy bear, or when he’d surprised Sharon with a date to see ‘Cats’ on Broadway (even though Steve had already seen it twice when he was in middle school). Chocolate was out. Flowers were a definite no; especially after Bucky had annihilated Tony’s get-well arrangement. A candlelight dinner seemed too cliché. Sleeping With Sirens was touring, but they weren’t coming to New York until after Christmas. _Nothing_ seemed good enough. He had to come up with something special for the boy who had, first and foremost, helped Steve figure out that he liked _boys_ , and, secondly, who’d...there were too many reasons to count. Bottom line: Bucky deserved way better than meaningless holiday stereotypes and overrated musicals.

Patting Little Panda on the head, Steve said, “Morning, buddy. Do you think Bucky would like it if I used a little bit of Alexander’s stupid money to bribe somebody to aim the Kiss Cam in our direction at a Knicks game? I could wrap my hand behind his neck, sweep him off his feet, and plant a big old smooch on his pretty lips in front of millions of people.”

Little Panda didn’t answer, but his beady black eyes didn’t think it was a good idea.

“Too public, right?” Steve sighed. “I know. He _has_ been touchy about people looking at him lately. What if I suck it up and go buy the stupid Revenge Prius? Then I could surprise him with a weekend drive upstate. We could find a gorgeous patch of woods to hike through, I could figure out how to light a bonfire, and we could roast marshmallows and snuggle up on a flannel blanket while the fall leaves rustled high above our heads.”

Little Panda was judgemental.

“C’mon, I can figure out how to build a fire! How hard can it be?”

Little Panda did not believe that Steve could start a bonfire without burning down the forest.

“Fine! You’re right. I’ll keep thinking.”

Carefully pulling out the DVD from behind Little Panda’s critical little back, Steve was almost afraid to look at the case. Was he destined for romance and comedy, or would he be visiting another dystopian universe full of menacing robots, egotistical aliens, and German existentialism? Snickering, Steve squeezed his eyes shut and rolled over, taking a minute to breathe in the smell of Bucky on his pillow. God, Steve loved him. He loved how the pillowcase smelled like a mixture of shampoo and sweat. He loved that every time the ‘teenage boy pheromones’ hit his brain, Steve heard the sound of Bucky moaning. He loved how every time Bucky threw his head back and laughed, it always sounded like he was riding the most exhilarating roller coaster, hands stretched high in the air, smiling wide enough to get bugs in his mouth, and not caring in the slightest. He loved that Bucky was summertime.

Breathing in another chestful of June air, Steve tapped his fingers on the plastic case. In addition to the ‘Mandatory Morning Dance Party’, ‘The Mandatory Morning Sing-along’, and ‘The Morning Laugh’, Bucky had added ‘The Daily Movie Assignment’ to his ridiculously wonderful mix. Science Fiction was obviously Bucky’s favorite, since every movie he’d assigned so far had delved deep into the genre... _really_ deep, with an impressive array of visual aids.

Bucky had followed up ‘Close Encounters of the Third Kind’ by serving Steve a heaping bowl of mashed potatoes at dinner. Mr. Barnes, Natasha, and Bucky’d all enjoyed a really good laugh while they’d happily devoured their juicy bacon cheeseburgers and curly fries from Sonic. Steve had given all of them the finger (yes, even Bucky’s dad) while he’d begrudgingly slurped down _mashed potatoes_ with a side of _more mashed potatoes_. The morning after ‘2001’, Steve had woken up to a seemingly never ending supply of hidden red construction paper circles. Lift the toilet seat to pee? Voyeuristic red circle. Search for the remote? Discover a tiny red circle underneath. Move the throw pillows? Find a red circle taped to the back of each one. To top it off, Bucky had spent his school day texting ‘HAL’s watching you’ every twenty-one minutes on the dot. Classic. Last Friday’s double feature of ‘The Fifth Element’ and ‘12 Monkeys’ had given Steve a much deeper appreciation for Bruce Willis, and he’d really enjoyed Bucky’s Leeloo impression later that night (it had involved Steve strategically wrapping white ace bandages around Bucky’s naked body), but the German silent movie ‘Metropolis’ had hit a little too close to home. Oppressive dystopian underworlds buried deep below the entitled feet of the privileged few wasn’t really Steve’s jam these days.

Then, there had been yesterday’s assignment.

‘Donnie Darko’ didn’t have any mysterious spaceships blasting five famous notes across the Mojave Desert, no infinite black monoliths floating silently through space and time, no apocalyptic viruses unleashed in a crowded airport, and no Bruce Willis rushing in to save the day with his manly swagger in a flying yellow taxi. At the end, when the giant jet engine fell out of the sky and smooshed Donnie while he slept, Steve had found himself wishing for hostile computers and mutating viruses. At least with those the protagonist had some hope of controlling their destiny. To be honest, as the credits rolled and the melancholy notes of ‘Mad World’ had drifted out of the speakers, Steve had spent a good chunk of time allowing his body to sink into the dip in the middle of the couch, wondering if his boyfriend was gonna jump out of a dark corner wearing the world’s most frightening bunny costume. Thankfully, Bucky had gone for a much more subtle tribute.

Around five, he’d quietly come through the garage door. If it hadn’t been for the tiny click of the door handle, Steve would have never known that Bucky had gotten home. But despite the warning, Steve had still involuntarily pulled his blanket up over his mouth when Bucky had walked into the room, dropped his heavy backpack at his feet, and stood there, not uttering a single word. Scary bunny slippers with bloodshot eyes and bouncy ears were one thing, but dead teenagers in horrifying bunny suits were another thing entirely. The seconds had ticked by as Bucky had stood there silently, staring at Steve with a brand new look; one that had absolutely nothing to do with summertime.

It had taken Steve a long minute to figure it out; the way that Bucky’d had his dimpled chin lowered, how his hair had been hidden beneath a grey hood...the distinct feeling that the smile playing at the corners of his lips hadn’t been quite right. Of all the possibilities that had raced through Steve’s mind, the first had been that something bad had happened at school; Fury had yelled at the team again, Parker hadn’t come through with the essay that Bucky had paid him to write, Rollins had said something shitty...but then Clint’s panicked voice, trying to explain what had happened with Bucky in the kitchen, had popped into his brain.

 

_...I’m telling all of you, something’s not right. I’ve seen Bucky pissed, stressed, angry, mean...but what happened in there wasn’t any of those! Mr. Barnes, he needs to talk to someone who knows what the hell they’re doing; and I’m sorry, but that’s not Steve, it’s not Nat, it’s not me...and I know it sounds like I’m overreacting or something, but it’s not even you, Mr. Barnes...it’s not any of us…_

 

As Clint’s words had replayed over and over, Bucky’s eyes had dropped shut in one impossibly slow blink, and Steve had felt a shiver run through his entire body. But then Steve had _finally_ caught on. Stretched tightly across Bucky’s chest had been a black shirt with a rib cage printed on the front, and at the sight of those bones Steve had breathed out a huge sigh of relief. It was the same outfit Jake Gyllenhaal had worn in the movie...

*

 

Bucky narrowed his eyes at Steve, pulling the hood tighter around his face as he whispered the film’s most memorable line. “Why are you wearing that stupid bunny suit?”

It was impressive how Bucky’s lips matched Donnie Darko’s sinister smile perfectly.

“Why are you wearing that stupid man suit?” Steve quipped, happy that he remembered enough to play along. Mashed potatoes, red circles, and naughty ace bandages followed up by an Oscar worthy impression...

Adopting Jake Gyllenhaal’s deep tone, Bucky dipped his chin even lower before shuffling forward. “Because it’s easier this way.”

The air in the room had grown thick...heavy like Bucky’s eyelids...and Steve was beyond impressed. There was no way in hell that he could hold character with the powerful vibrations that Bucky’s pupils were emitting. He almost felt dizzy.

“Oh my god, baby,” Steve chuckled as he clambered off the couch. “Have you always been such a good actor?”

Bucky didn’t move an inch.

“I’ve gotta know, did you have this entire outfit tucked away in your closet already, or did you and Clint go on a top secret ‘Donnie Darko’ adventure just so you could wow me with your amazing Jake Gyllenhaal impression?”

Bucky still didn’t move, but the air around him seemed to gain even more weight; the imperceptible scrunch of his brow raising the barometric pressure high enough to make you choke.

“I mean, I know you’re obsessed with the guy, Buck, but I had no idea that you could reenact his entire Filmography! That’s one of the things I love most about you. You’re such a weirdo.”

Bucky’s shoulders hunched forward, their width shrinking down to the perfect picture of teenage isolation as he mumbled another line. “How’s it feel to have a wacko for a boyfriend?”

Damn. The hairs on Steve’s arms literally stood up as Bucky tipped his head to the side the slightest bit. Dropping the blanket, Steve stepped over the coffee table and planted a kiss on Bucky’s forehead. “It’s really amazing how much you look and sound just like him. You’re giving me chills, baby. Seriously, how many times have you watched this movie?”

Never breaking character, Bucky whispered, “So many times that it feels like I’m living between the frames.”

“Well, I’ve gotta be honest.” Steve touched his fingertip to Bucky’s cotton sternum, then tapped each rib where the ends of the bones attached. “Frank the Bunny scared the shit out of me. I’ve been hiding underneath that blanket for over an hour, praying that you’d hurry up and get home to feed me some more chocolate chip cookies. But, while I was hiding, I really thought about the idea that you can’t escape destiny...that what’s going to happen in this life is completely out of your control...and I really can’t accept that way of thinking anymore. Don’t you think the fact that I found a way to escape that hell with Alexander shouts in the face of that kind of hopeless philosophy? I mean, there’s always something you can do to change your life, to stick it to the bad guys, to help other people when they need it. Do you know what I mean, Buck?”

Steve slid his hand underneath the hoodie and squeezed Bucky’s waist. No matter how many times he made contact with Bucky’s hard muscles or dragged his palm across his soft skin, Steve still felt lucky. Quickly kissing his scruffy cheek, Steve chuckled. “And I’ve gotta say, while I’ve loved this ongoing adventure into the world of Science Fiction, don’t you and Clint ever drop your movie snob attitudes long enough to swoon over something lighter? There has to be at least one romantic comedy hidden beneath your DVD mountain range of existentialism. And, if there is, you should unearth it for tomorrow’s assignment.”

The motion of Bucky pulling down his hood was slow and subtle, as was the kiss he pressed against Steve’s lips before offering a little smile. “Yeah, you’re right, Stevie. I’m sorry. I don’t know what I was thinking.”

*

 

“Hey, Little Panda,” Steve mumbled into the pillow. “Will you check out the cover of this movie for me? Bucky promised me romantic rides in hot air balloons high above the English countryside, implausibly choreographed dance breaks set to eighties classics, and tearful reunions on the top of The Empire State Building. Is that what you see?”

Steve waved it around in the air, but received no response.

“Fine. Be that way.”

Flopping back over, Steve bravely cracked open one eye, and, judging by the giant snake about to devour a man dressed in all leather in the middle of a desert wasteland, Little Panda had been right to remain silent. Scenic romance, silly romance, romantic comedy, or _any_ type of romance whatsoever was definitely _not_ on today’s movie menu. He’d been awake for less than ten minutes, and Bucky already had him laughing out loud.

But before Steve could delve into the land of snakes and sand, he had a very important mission to complete. Last night, after Bucky had wiggled his little butt backwards to snuggle up super tight against his chest, Steve had fallen asleep with one goal in mind: wake up and become a useful member of this…

Steve swallowed, because the word ‘family’ was balancing on the tip of his tongue, begging for permission to burst out and joyfully echo throughout every square inch of the house. But Steve didn’t let himself say it, or even _think_ it completely. All of this was still too new, and his ever present irrational fear of jinxing everything was being a total pain in his ass. Phil Barnes already felt like the father he’d never had. Natasha, despite some ups and downs, had been trying her best to make Steve feel welcome and warm. And Bucky? Well, Steve hadn’t felt this safe since his mom died. But none of it justified the word ‘family’...at least not yet.

Throwing his legs over the edge of the bed, Steve couldn’t stop himself from rapping his knuckles twice on the wooden desk. Family. He imagined dozens of marshmallow four leaf clovers dancing their way around the edges of the ceiling to a funny Irish jig. Family. Salt thrown over a shoulder. Family. Avoiding every crack in the sidewalk for the rest of his life. He knocked two more times, because no matter how hard he tried to make himself shut-up, the word kept rolling around in his brain. Steve grabbed Little Panda and set him on his lap, praying that those three syllables would become synonymous with his life again someday.

“Do you think I’ll be a good dad?” Steve asked the only ‘person’ in the room.

Neither of them knew the answer.

But he was off track. _Way_ off track. He had one mission: do something helpful around the house. Simple. But since Steve hadn’t exactly been successful at his previous attempts to help out, he was rightfully a little nervous. Raking leaves one-handed? Nope. Making the bed one-handed? No way. Taking out the recycling one-handed? Considering that he’d accidentally dumped the entire bin across the alley, then had spent fifteen minutes chasing water bottles as they’d rolled away in the wind, that was gonna be a hard no. But today was gonna be the day! Positivity was the key. Steve was gonna get up, put on the vampire bat pajamas that he’d officially commandeered, throw on the ‘Need An Arc? I Noah Guy’ tank top that he’d been wearing for the past three days (according to Bucky, the fact that ‘Arc’ was spelled wrong made the shirt even funnier), and figure out _something_ helpful that he could do one-handed (besides pressing buttons on the remote and jerking Bucky off).

It took half a second for Steve’s eyes to land on the mounds of dirty clothes that were overtaking Bucky’s room... _their_ room. He could barely see the carpet anymore (let alone figure out where the vampire pants had flown off to) which quickly made Steve realize that he was a complete and total asshole. It was a tough pill to swallow at whatever-o’clock in the morning, but the wadded up towel that he’d used sometime over the weekend, the striped hoodie thrown over Bucky’s guitar, the inside-out Boston shirt half covering a pair of striped boxers, and the faces on the discarded pop culture t-shirts peeking at him from their garbage dump piles made the truth pretty fucking hard to deny.

Every single piece of clothing that Steve had thrown on the floor for the past eighteen _years_ had magically disappeared; whisked away to a laundry wonderland where dirt, smells, and stains were snapped out of existence by joyful fairies wearing little white aprons. Thinking back, he could remember doing laundry exactly _once_ , which meant Steve had taken it for granted that his clothes had magically reappeared, clean and folded, in his drawers for _eighteen fucking years!_ Staring at the pair of red boxer briefs that had been looped around the leg of the chair since the day Tony had shown up with the lawyers, Steve understood how truly pathetic that was.

The laundry spell had originally been woven into the maple dresser that their upstairs neighbor, Mr. Shaw, had passed down to his mom after he’d treated himself to a brand new bedroom set from the Sears catalog. Steve had a tiny memory of his mother struggling to carry it down the stairs while the equally shaky Mr. Shaw had desperately tried not to drop the other side and crush her like a grape. He couldn’t have been more than four or five, but Steve clearly remembered how the thing had barely fit into his room, leaving only six inches between the drawers and his mattress. The fan in his window hadn’t been helping with the stifling heatwave, and Steve had sat cross-legged and sweating on the edge of his bed watching his mother lovingly line each drawer with plaid contact paper to protect Steve’s hand-me-down clothes from the splintering corners. She’d never once complained of the heat.

Bob Ross’ bearded face stared at him from under the edge of Bucky’s shredded black jeans, and Steve decided to acknowledge his ignorance to someone...even if that someone was made of cotton and loved happy little trees painted with the flick of a fan brush.

“I didn’t appreciate her,” Steve whispered. “Every time I yanked open those crooked drawers, they were _always_ filled with matching white socks that she’d rolled into little balls, neatly folded shirts, and clean underwear. I can’t remember a single time that I opened a drawer and saw plaid. Not once.”

Kicking at a pair of Adidas shorts, Steve saw her and his heart rate slowed. Sarah Rogers wasn’t moving, in fact, even the ray of light that had been making its way across the ceiling towards the disco ball had stopped dead in its tracks. There was a sense that his mother had gently blown her absent breath across a patch of dandelion puffs, and the thousands of little white seeds were floating in midair. Her back was towards him, and Steve could see that her transparent hands were looped through the handles on Bucky’s drawers. Steve winced, because if his mother opened Bucky’s drawer it would be empty.

_“Steven, sweetheart, if you were to build a home for this boy that you love, what would you fill it with?”_

“With everything he deserves.”

Even her long blonde hair was unmoving; the hem of her blue skirt completely static as the drawer creaked open.

_“Your hand-me-down dresser rotted away in a dump long ago, leaving nothing but faded plaid plastic, but your clothes have always been clean.”_

Shame washed over him as his mother’s words hit home. When the magic of her soft hands had faded, Steve had found himself trapped inside a perfectly organized walk-in closet made of mirrors and chrome; where suits that Steve had violently thrown across his bedroom after another ‘disappointing’ dinner party had _still_ magically returned. There hadn’t been any contact paper curling up in the corners, or tiny socks rolled into balls, but the perfectly pressed suits had always returned to their wooden hangers like nothing had ever happened.

It seems that laundry magic had taken care of blood in much the same way as it had removed spilled chocolate milk and grass stained knees.

Steve opened his mouth to say something... _anything_...but she was already gone; the sun finally hitting its mark and sending little circles of light around the room.

Maybe Steve hadn’t thought about it because he’d been a kid, spoiled by a mother who’d loved the heck out of him, then spoiled by an abusive prick who’d given Steve everything only to keep him out of the way? Or, maybe, Steve had _actually_ grown into a self-entitled asshole who didn’t know how to pick up his own dirty clothes? Either way, fourteen day’s worth of discarded underwear, funny pajama pants, stretched out vintage t-shirts (sorry, Buck), wet towels, oversized hoodies, and way too many socks to count had fallen to the floor without the intervention of magic. God, he was such a _dick_. It was time for Steve to drag his spoiled ass out of bed and weave some magic of his own for once!

He set Little Panda in his special spot between their pillows, whispering, “See you later, pal. I’ve gotta put something in those drawers besides our big bottle of lube and Bucky’s collar.”

Steve paused and squished up his face, because that was a shockingly inappropriate thing for him to say to Little Panda.

The vampire bats were nowhere to be found, so Steve kicked things around until he spotted the Mexican llamas. Not his first choice, but beggars couldn’t be choosers. After yanking them over his butt with one hand, Steve grabbed the tank top and gave it the whiff test. It failed, but he pulled it on anyway. God, he was pathetic.

Okay, first he had to find a laundry basket. How hard could that be?

After fifteen fruitless minutes of searching, Steve’s blood sugar was reaching dangerously low levels, and he’d been left with no other choice but to embark on a covert mission into Natasha’s territory. Sure, he’d been living with her like she was his pseudo-sister...sister-in-law? No, neither of those descriptions were right. Even though she’d been nothing but welcoming (almost), Natasha was still a friend from school who suddenly had to put up with her brother’s helpless boyfriend invading her life full time. And now Steve was sneaking into her bedroom like he owned the place. Taking a deep breath to push back the anxiety creeping into his chest, Steve whispered a few affirmations before pushing open her door. “I’m being a helpful member of this household. This is me being helpful.”

Natasha was compulsively neat compared to her brother...compared to _anyone_ really. There was nothing to trip over when Steve took a few tentative steps into her space; just empty beige carpet that looked like she’d vacuumed it five minutes ago. A pair of earbuds was coiled up like a baby snake on her nightstand, a silver necklace with a little arrow pendant was laid out in a precise oval on her dresser, and the three hooks on the wall next to her closet held three pairs of well worn pointe shoes hanging from their ribbons. No pink shoe was lower than any other; dangling with the tips of the toes lined up in a perfect row like she’d used a ruler and a level to make absolutely certain they were just right. The more that Steve learned about Natasha, the more he realized that he knew almost nothing about her. Steve needed to change that too.

Tiptoeing towards her dresser, Steve squinted at the strip of tiny photo booth pictures that were stuck in the frame of her mirror. They were the most telling thing in the room: Clint obnoxiously licking her cheek while she scrunched up her nose, the two of them giving one another rabbit ears with huge smiles, Clint curling a piece of her red hair around his finger as he touched his lips to her forehead, and, finally, Clint’s tongue sliding into her mouth for a real kiss. Steve had no idea when or where they’d been taken...if they’d flashed into existence before or after Steve had moved in... but, judging by the size of the smiles, Steve was leaning towards _before_.

Steve got closer to the mirror to poke at the peeling skin where the stitches had been and spotted a turquoise laundry basket in the reflection. Finally! His stomach was growling and his shirt really did stink...a combo of the bad kind of sweat and maybe...sex? Yeah, he’d definitely forgotten all about wiping the come off Bucky’s stomach with it last night. Gross. Shaking his head, Steve squatted down to grab the basket and noticed something out of place...something he immediately wished that he hadn’t seen. There, stuck between Natasha’s bed and the wall, was Clint’s beat up leather jacket.

Shit.

He’d been over last night to help Bucky study for a Physics test, which had quickly devolved into the two of them pretending that Physics didn’t exist while they’d baked two entire trays of chocolate chip cookies. Steve had been sent to the right side of the couch, along with a slightly miffed Natasha, who’d squished herself into the opposite corner to await the arrival of ‘cookie perfection’. And damn, Steve’d had no idea that cookies from a tube could taste so yummy! They’d been well worth the wait; despite the overwhelming pot smell that had almost buried the aroma of melting chocolate when Bucky and Clint had finally plopped down in the middle. They’d put on the final episode of ‘Stranger Things’, Clint had swung his arm around Natasha’s shoulder and had blown endless raspberries on her cheek, Bucky had hand fed Steve delicious cookie after delicious cookie...everything had been _fine_ ... _great_ even...until Natasha had pulled the rubber band out of Clint’s hair and had used her fingers to quickly unravel his tight french braid.

Out of the corner of his eye, Steve had watched Clint swatting at Natasha’s hand and mouthing ‘stop’, before he’d yanked every single strand back into a low bun. But the thing that had made Steve look a little harder was the way Clint had glanced nervously at Bucky’s profile when he was done. It had been a little thing, five seconds at the most, but Steve had caught the scoff escaping from Natasha’s lips, and the relief in Clint’s eyes when he’d confirmed that Bucky had been too busy shoving another cookie into his mouth to notice a damn thing. And Steve? Well, he’d let Bucky feed him three more cookies and had forgotten all about it. Until now.

Clint’s coat being here, without _Clint_ , struck Steve as wrong. Last night, the temperature had dropped below freezing for the first time, and, if his coat was here, that meant he’d most likely walked home in nothing but his ripped ‘Circle Jerks’ shirt and his shredded grey jeans. Everything Clint owned looked like he’d been attacked by a swarm of hungry moths, blasted with bottle rockets by the shitty neighbor kids, and had gotten lost in a scissor factory gone wild! If Clint had gone outside wearing that swiss cheese outfit, he would have frozen his ass off! Like an idiot, Steve pulled the jacket out from where it had been forgotten, lifting it up to stare at the spikes, pins, and zippers. The black leather was worn to the point where it looked like suede in some spots, the Misfits skull was falling off the back, and the whole thing smelled like weed.  

Suddenly, the memory of Clint crying on the floor in Tribeca, while he’d picked remnants of chocolate covered strawberries out of the carpet, hit Steve right in the gut. Clint had been there to keep Bucky warm, and now…well, now Steve had two very conflicting desires: to wrap Clint up in a puffy, fleece-lined parka, throw a fuzzy scarf around his neck, and shove one of those hats with the ear flaps over his overgrown mohawk. Or, to march over to Clint’s apartment after school let out to give him a _very_ stern talking to about Bucky? Shit. Maybe Steve needed to do both! But not now. Dammit. He couldn’t deal with _any_ of that right now. _Right now_ , Steve was _trying_ to be a helpful human.

Shoving the jacket back into the crack, Steve grabbed the basket. There were a few lacy bras in the bottom, which Steve felt weird about taking out...or leaving in...ugh, super weird. He went with ‘helpful’ and didn’t touch them.

Finding the goddamn laundry basket had taken forever, which was ridiculous. Steve trudged back towards Bucky’s room... _their_ room…to attempt to do a better job filling the thing with actual dirty clothes.

Seemed easy enough, even though breakfast time was quickly transitioning to brunch and Steve was fucking starving, but when he moved a random box in the corner to get to a pair of Bucky’s faded jeans an avalanche of wadded up gum wrappers buried his feet. Steve snorted. Loudly. Because, while he’d learned a lot of things about Bucky since he’d moved in...that he talked in his sleep, that he _swore_ in his sleep, that he always wanted to sit on the left side of the couch, that he refused to kill spiders (not because he was afraid of their spindly legs, but because he _liked_ them)...none of that had fully prepared Steve to get overtaken by Bucky’s horde of gum wrappers. Wiggling his toes, the crunched up silver balls, white wrappers packed extra tight, looser ones with stripes, and the tiny balls from tiny Trident rolled over top of one another in the most satisfying way; an avalanche of spheres compressed by the same hands that Steve had been trying to memorize. Perfect.

Steve added the jeans, threw a few more stinky things on top, then went to pick up the basket; quickly realizing (again) that he was an idiot. Even though his ribs were healing, they were still too screwed up to bend over completely, the damn cast was still getting in the way of pretty much everything, and Steve couldn’t lift the overflowing basket even if he _could_ bend over to reach it. Squatting had worked when it was empty, but his stupid arm was still weak and it hurt like a son of a bitch every time he picked up something heavier than a half gallon of milk.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck!”

Little Panda judged Steve harshly from his poofy pillow thrown.

“What!? You don’t give Bucky shit when he says ‘fuck’ every three seconds!”

Little Panda informed Steve that it was _his_ job to be the good role model in this relationship. Good role models make good dads.

“Oh, fuck you, Little Panda! I _will too_ make a good dad someday! And Bucky’s a great role model! You can be a great parent and swear like a sailor! Jesus fucking christ!”

He resorted to kicking the basket down the hall and yelling ‘fuck’ every time his foot made contact; more to prove his point to the completely inanimate stuffed bear who’d _royally_ pissed Steve off with his high moral standards than to express his frustration. Regardless, it felt good. His attempt to slide the damn thing down the stairs without spilling the clothes failed miserably, so he put everything back in the basket for the second time, gave a big middle finger to the world, and kicked the damn thing as hard as he could down the basement stairs.

But his problems didn’t end there, because the instant he _finally_ made it down to the dusty basement, Steve was confronted with an entirely _new_ set of problems.

Staring at him, with their circular mouths and beady button eyes, were two evil machines dead set on obliterating Steve’s mission to become a helpful member of this...fuck superstition...this _family_ . You see, a life surrounded by magical laundry fairies meant that Steve had missed out on washer and dryer training. He’d done laundry exactly _once_ in his life...badly...and the Barnes’ machines had a hell of a lot more buttons than the 1980s commercial versions that had occupied his Brooklyn basement. But Steve was determined. How hard could it be? Picking up the clothes (again), he dumped everything in the washer,  then, since there was room left at the top, tossed in a pile of Mr. Barnes stuff that was lying on the concrete floor, dumped in some kind of blue soap, and hit the only green button. Take that evil machines!

An hour later the machines had won: HAL had vented Steve’s oxygen into the vastness of space, Bruce Willis hadn’t gotten everyone to safety before the bomb blew up Gary Oldman, the German robot with the face of an angel had succeeded in drowning the working class children, and the evil washing machine from hell had destroyed Steve’s hopes of being a helpful member of the Barnes’ family.

When he yelled, “Fuck!” at the top of his lungs, he didn’t even feel bad about it.

Steve’s second attempt at laundry had ended up pretty much the same as his first: a goddamn disaster. A goddamn _pink_ disaster to be exact! The instant Steve had opened the door to the washer he’d known, he should have stayed in bed with Little Panda. It had taken Steve a good chunk of time to stop stomping around the basement long enough to shove everything into the demon dryer, push the biggest button extra hard, then stomp up the stairs to collapse on the couch and watch ‘Dune’. Turns out that the giant snake was actually called a ‘sand worm’ and its spicy poop got people wasted and made their eyes glow blue. It was horrible.

Hours later, Steve still hadn’t moved from his self imposed couch exile when Bucky charged into the house with a big box of pastries from the bakery across the street from Eaton. The familiar white box was tied with a red ribbon, and Bucky’s fingers were casually looped underneath, barely holding on as he swung it around while he babbled something about Sam following him around like a lost vampire and getting caesar dressing in his hair when he’d tried to steal Daisy’s breadstick with his teeth. Steve was pretty sure that whatever goodies Bucky had picked out from the pretty glass cases were going to be smushed, smeared, and broken beyond recognition by the time they untied the bow. Regardless of Bucky’s cupcake or lemon square destruction, his crazy energy instantly made Steve feel better; but not enough to forgive him for the spice wars.

Bucky was wearing a leather jacket, black with three buckles folding over his left shoulder and an elbow patch with a red star. Steve had never seen it before.

“Hi, baby. Is that a new coat?”

Swiveling his head around to inspect himself, Bucky flicked at one of the buckles before giving Steve an exaggerated shrug. “I have no idea.”

“That was a _very_ informative answer,” Steve chuckled, feeling less like a total loser already.

“Well, when I figure it out,” Bucky quipped, “you’ll be the first to know. _But_ , who gives a shit about my jacket’s origin story when I have angel wings, double fudge brownies, and big ass vanilla cupcakes with buttercream frosting and sprinkles and everything!” He shook the box for emphasis and Steve couldn’t help but smile.

Nodding at the cube of pastry destruction, Steve raised his eyebrows and asked, “Do you think there’s any way that even a _hint_ of frosting is still attached to those cupcakes?”

The look on Bucky’s face as he watched the box swing to a stop was priceless; all pouty lips, wrinkled nose cuteness. “I killed your surprise.”

“No,” Steve scoffed. “I’m positive that angel wings will taste even more delicious with pieces of fudge and buttercream frosting smeared all over them. You can sell the recipe back to the bakery and it’ll become the new Cronut.”

“Well then, let’s open this puppy, stuff our faces with my new billion dollar invention, and discuss today’s sci-fi classic in great detail!

Bucky plopped down on the coffee table, slamming the box down equally hard beside him, and grabbed the remote off Steve’s lap. He flipped it into the air and caught it without looking. “Tell me that you loved ‘Dune’! It was great right? An underappreciated cinematic masterpiece. Did you see Sting? I didn’t even tell you that he was in the movie ‘cause I didn’t wanna ruin the surprise. I always imagine that Police songs are playing when he comes on screen. You know, like ‘every little thing she does is magic, every thing she do just turns me on’.” Bucky sang the rest of the verse with a huge smile on his face, before throwing the remote high enough that it rotated three times before it landed it in his open palm.

“I tried to help today,” Steve confessed.

The hem of a white sweater was peeking out from beneath Bucky’s jacket. Steve had never seen that before either.

Bucky scrunched up his face and snickered, “Help who? The less fortunate? I know that’s your cup of tea nowadays. Did you rescue a stray cat out of the alley? ‘Cause those cats are in a shady cat gang. Don’t let them fool you with their wiggly whiskers...”

“No,” Steve interrupted. “I did a load of laundry.”

“Oh, well, why do you look so sad about it? Did the stray cats, that you _irresponsibly_ let overrun the house, piss all over our clothes? Did you have to do a single load of laundry to hide the evidence?”

“I did it wrong.”

“I bet you put in way too much detergent and had a foam party with the stray cats. Is the basement _still_ filled with foam? Are there cat tails sticking out of it!?” Bucky snorted, then lifted up the edge of his sweater to scratch at the skin underneath. “I’ve always wanted to go to one of those parties. Tony told me that there’s this club in Midtown that has honest to god ‘flashback to the nineties’ nights where they fill the whole dance floor like they used to do in Ibiza! Macaulay was gonna take Tony, well, _before_ he dumped his ass for being too rich. Did you know that was the reason? I mean, I know that I had a problem with you being rich...sort of...but I still wanted to hang out and suck your dick.”

Biting at his bottom lip, Bucky winked before resuming his stream-of-consciousness rambling. “Macaulay must have a serious inferiority complex or something. That, or Tony’s just too annoying for a relationship. But, anyway, the inside scoop on this club is that everyone wears angel wings and dances around in the foam half naked. Tony said that maybe he can call a guy who can get us in sometime. Can you imagine how fucking hot that would be!?”

Steve couldn’t take his eyes off Bucky as the words poured out his mouth in an effervescent stream; bubbles and neon lights, skin on skin, the feeling of dancing. God, he wished they were dancing right now, but it was time for confession.

“Bucky, I turned everything pink.”

“Oh.”

“That’s all you’re going to say?”

Baby blue Chucks got kicked off of Bucky’s feet, the leather coat was shrugged off and dropped to the floor, and slender fingers grabbed the end of the red ribbon. “Well, Molly Ringwald,” Bucky started with a crooked little smile. “I like pink. It’s one of my favorite colors as a matter of fact, so what’s the problem, Jigglypuff?”

“What?”

“Turn that frown upside-down, Kirby.”

“I’m serious! Your dad and Natasha are going to be really mad, and I don’t…”

“Mewtwo,” Bucky interrupted, “I’m sure it’s not as bad as you’re making it out to be!”

No. It was worse.

The pastries forgotten in favor of Steve’s complete and utter humiliation, Bucky had gleefully skipped away to fetch Steve’s laundry load of shame, and now he was cackling as he adjusted a pair of pink tightie-whities...tightie- _pinkies_...on his head like a goddamn hat.

“I mean, Molly, I’m _obviously_ down for an eighties revival. ‘Pretty in Pink’ is the bomb. Hey, you know that I’d wear the Duckie shoes you bought me every single day if I wasn’t scared shitless that I was gonna fuck them up. You do know that, right?” Not waiting for an answer, Bucky chuckled as he arranged another pair of formerly white boxer briefs on his head (like one pair wasn’t enough). That, along with the newly pink tube socks that Bucky had pulled over his wide legged jeans and Mr. Barnes’ black and newly pink checkered shirt tied over his shoulders eighties style, pretty much solidified Steve’s failure at becoming a helpful member of this family.

“Stevie, I know you’re in love with John Hughes, so I’m thinkin’ that you did this shit on purpose.” Bucky snatched up one of Natasha’s pink bras and somehow managed to fasten the closure over top of his sweater. Shoving two pink socks into the cups, Bucky shouted, “Look! I’m Madonna.”

Yes, Steve was a total failure and horribly embarrassed, but it was impossible not to laugh when Bucky started singing ‘Vogue’, complete with perfect video choreography.

While Bucky rubbed his hands all over his ‘boobs’, Steve picked up the brand new white polo shirt that he’d bought a couple days ago. It was the color of a watermelon. “I was trying to help.”

“Oh, my poor, sweet, spoiled baby; never had to wash a single item of clothing in his entire life. C’mon, vogue. Let your body move to the music.” Bucky slithered up in front of him, yanking the shirt out of his hands and tossing it into the air. “It’s ‘The Morning Dance Party’, and you need to get with the picture and shake your adorable pink ass.”

“I’ve done laundry before.”

“Yeah, I can tell.”

“I used to help my mom.”

Bucky stopped his voguing and his ‘boob’ squeezing, stepping back in his Madonna bra to stare at Steve like he’d fucked up by teasing him...which he _hadn’t_.

“I mean, I _tried_ to help my mom. I’m pretty sure that I only helped her once.”

“And…?”

“Um...she was sorting the clothes from the hamper one day after work, but she fell asleep on the couch before she’d finished. I think maybe I was about nine or ten, and I remember feeling bad that I’d been drawing a picture of a submarine while she’d fallen over from exhaustion. So I shoved all the clothes into the basket, dug a bunch of quarters out of the junk drawer, and headed down to the basement on my own.”

“Where you ran into a deranged clown?”

“No,” Steve scoffed. “I threw everything into one of the washers, managed to figure out how to turn the ancient machine on, then beamed with pride as the thing rattled and clanked.”

“ _Then_ the deranged clown jumped out and grabbed you.”

“No! Then I opened the lid and realized that everything had turned blue!”

Bucky stared at him, eyes big and round, and Steve realized that his rock solid argument about his impressive laundry resume was completely invalid.

“So, lemme get this straight.” Bucky snickered as he grabbed the box off the coffee table. “You did _one_ load of laundry when you were in elementary school, fucked it up completely, got attacked by a deranged clown, barely made it out alive, and then, almost a decade later, decided that the best way to help out around the house was to recreate your failure in shades of red and pink.”

Yeah, that sounded about right.

Readjusting his Madonna boobs, Bucky generously gifted Steve with his gorgeous sunshine smile as he pulled the end of the ribbon and opened the lid. “What am I gonna do with you, Steve Rogers?”

“Hey,” Steve chuckled, staring at the conglomeration of destroyed desserts. “At least I didn’t shrink everything this time.”

 *****

  


It’s the little things

 

The unpredictable migration when you sleep

sideways, diagonal, upside-down.

You’re never in the same place

when I wake

as when I closed my eyes.

 

The discovery of a thousand gum wrappers

inexplicably tossed into a secret corner

crumbled equally, compressed into perfect spheres.

I prefer not to ask about their origin

Simply loving that they exist

Praying that I get to watch them multiply

until they overtake the space around our feet.

 

Brown hairs tangled in my comb.

Finding my toothbrush wet before I run the water.

A razor dulled before its time.

I sense you everywhere

even when you’ve been gone for hours.

My belly feels warm with the taste of you

as I brush my teeth.

 

It’s the little things

that mean the most.

  


“You planning on wearing that towel to first hour, Bucky? I get that you like to take fashion risks, but Kuzinski’s _not_ gonna be down for that.” Fully dressed Sam sat down on the locker room bench next to almost naked Bucky and gave him a once over, complete with his ‘you’re a dumbass’ crooked smile and ‘but I’m amused’ crossed arms. Sam Wilson, the champion of dry humor had struck again. Yippee.

Hastily folding up Steve’s note, Bucky shoved it deep inside the side pocket of his backpack. It was Thursday morning after a grueling hour long practice. Thursday morning; the day of their super hyped swim meet against their archenemy, the equally stuck-up (and talented) Dalton School team. Thursday; the day he _should_ have gotten to hide under the blankets for an extra forty-five minutes and see how many times he could lick Steve’s nipple without waking him up (last week’s record: seventeen licks to reach the center), but nooo...according to Furious Fury, the team had sucked so bad since Steve’s ‘inconvenient’ hiatus that they’d been practicing five fucking mornings a week, _plus_ conditioning on Saturday. Harry, Jack, and totally _not_ -hungover Ezra had _all_ puked their guts out after Fury’d made them run up and down the stadium stairs for half an hour! It was cruel and unusual punishment at the highest degree. Bucky was pissed about it. Pissed about sucking ass. Pissed about being up so early. And pissed that he’d had to get out of his nice, comfortable, cozy, amazing, perfect, kickass warm bed and leave the octopus arms of his aggressively spooning boo. Shaking his wet hair like a dog, Bucky tried extra hard to make the drops land all over Sam’s faded jeans, but he was a quick mother fucker and slid his big bubble booty down the bench so fast that he made Scott fall off the end.

Bucky snorted when Scott squealed, “Hey! What the hell, dude!?”

“Sorry, man.” Sam sighed, extending his hand. “Bucky’s still in dick mode.”

That was a fair assessment and probably the very reason that Steve had hidden the poem inside Bucky’s ‘Jackson 5’ shirt, tucked up next to baby Michael. That sneaky little bastard knew that Bucky would find it after swim torture when his pissy levels were peaking, probably knowing that Bucky would stand in the middle of the crowded locker room, naked and overwhelmed by Steve’s sugary sappiness, and get his bazillionth tardy. Steve had no doubt snuck into Bucky’s backpack late last night like a naughty Christmas elf, complete with a pointy green hat and red tights hugging his ass, and had done it anyway (bring on the detentions), because Steven Grant Rogers was a sappy little shit who tried to hide his devious side under heaping piles of sugar filled poetic sappiness.

Without his permission, Bucky’s brain decided to laugh uncontrollably as he dug around in his bag for his pants. Even with prior knowledge of Steve’s sappy tricks, Bucky’d _still_ stood there naked and dripping while the rest of the team had gotten dressed, because Bucky was a sucker and he was completely in love with all of Steve’s high-fructose corn syrup.

“Oh look, Scott, his dick timer must have gone off,” Sam quipped. “Is it safe to come back over there now?”

“I’m still not wearing pants.”

Rollins scoffed behind him and muttered, “What else is new, slut?”

“Hey!” Sam did indeed come closer, braving the perimeter of Bucky’s shaggy dog splash zone, before yelling, “Shut the fuck up, man. Nobody wants to listen to your big mouth.”

“...can’t just stand here all day. Please, for the love of god, put on those jeans.”

“What?” Bucky looked around. Sam was staring at him. The locker room was empty. The t-shirt with baby Michael, and his gang of less talented brothers, was already covering his chest. Hair in a bun dripping down his back. Slightly pink jeans in one hand. Bucky was getting so fucking sick of this shit.

“What do you mean ‘what’!?” Sam covered his eyes. “I don’t wanna see your dick.”

Glancing down, it was indeed true. Bucky’d put on his shirt, socks, Duckie shoes (which he didn’t remember packing), had half-ass done his hair, and left out the pants. Add indecent exposure to his ever expanding list of problems. Fuck.

“Whatever,” Bucky snickered, because what the hell else was he supposed to do? There were better things to think about than wearing shoes without underwear, like Steve writing gorgeous poetry with lines like ‘my belly feels warm with the taste of you as I brush my teeth’. _That_ was worth Bucky’s time.

He knew exactly what that line was about, not that he’d ever admit it. Bucky’d been using Steve’s toothbrush for the past week because during some stellar morning multitasking (pissing and brushing his teeth at the same time) he’d accidentally dropped his toothbrush directly into his pee stream. Bucky was _not_ good at multitasking. He’d stared at it for awhile, floating around in the toilet like a sad little log, had almost puked when he’d grabbed it and flung it into the trash, then had officially decided he was too much of a lazy mother fucker to grab another one out of the cabinet. And here Steve was, writing _poetry_ about it! It made Bucky feel all mushy inside, and maybe a little inadequate, since the extent of his dental artistry had been putting extra toothpaste on Steve’s toothbrush and pretending that he was, in order: a rabid raccoon set on world domination, a Russian spy who’d snapped a cyanide tablet between his molars (he’d collapsed on the bathroom rug and everything), and, this morning, a man who’d been overcome by the insatiable desire to squirt whip cream into his mouth until he’d suffocated on the creamy delight. Steve was a _poet_. Bucky was just a dipshit with an overactive imagination.

“The late bell’s about to ring, man. Are you gonna tell me what was on that piece of paper? You were staring at it for ten minutes.”

“Yeah, sorry. Got distracted by my very engrossing study guide for math.” Bucky pulled on his white underwear with the red heart. He didn’t remember packing those either.

Sam raised his eyebrows, which was all it took to break down Bucky’s defenses.

“Ugh, fine. Steve did a thing. He wrote me another poem and hid it next to The King of Pop.” Bucky poked Michael’s afro for emphasis. “He’s sweet like that.”

Chuckling, Sam shouldered his backpack. “Steve’s been living with you for what? A couple weeks? And you’ve already turned him into some kind of domesticated housewife who whistles while he cuts the crust off your peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and tucks love notes into your bag?”

“Trust me, Sam. Steve is _anything_ but a housewife. Having an army of servants for the past six years has stunted his ability to do...basically everything. He almost got killed by a fitted sheet the other night, and I’d like you to take note of my sexy pink pants.” It took three hops for Bucky to get his suddenly _tight as fuck_ jeans, with the distinctive bubblegum tint, up over his ass. “Steve did laundry yesterday. He turned everything in the house pink, including Natasha’s special Victoria’s Secret bra and my dad’s favorite shirt.” Bucky struggled to zip the fly over his dick. “And these jeans aren’t hugging my ass like a glove because I’ve been downing dozens of Krispy Kremes on the sly. Oh no, Samwise Gamgee, my handsome househubby shrunk the shit out of everything too.”

“So, it’s going well then?” Sam laughed.

Jesus, he couldn’t get the button through the hole! “Actually, it’s fucking fantastic. I happen to love pink. I bet my ass looks even better in these now. And, I dunno, there’s just something cool about knowing that every time I roll over to murder my alarm at the asscrack of dawn, Steve’s gonna be there. I really dig knowing he’s _safe_. You know, eatin’ all the food, watching his daily movie assignment...today’s selection is ‘Blade Runner’...can you believe Steve hasn’t seen it!?”

“I’ve never seen it either.”

“Then you’re stupid. Stupid Steve and Stupid Sam sittin’ in a tree, missing out on cinematic history,” Bucky sang as he slipped his Duckie shoes on for a second time. He pointedly ignored _their_ elusive origin story too. “You both suck. They’re making a new one, you know!? Jared Leto is gonna be in it! And Ryan Gosling! And Hans Solo! It’s like a sci-fi fantasy fuck fest. Jared, Ryan, and Hans Solo sittin’ in a tree…”

“You mean _Han_ Solo.”

“No, I _mean_ the sassy smuggler in the lederhosen. He’s a regular here. _Hans_ Solo is _always_ chillin’ in the back of the bar, sucking Ryan Gosling’s cock while Jared fucks him hard from behind. He throws back pints of beer with Chewbacca to wash down the taste.”

“Man, you shouldn’t be talking shit about Harrison Ford like that...”

“What!?” Bucky hollered, putting on his brand new mystery coat. “You’re telling me that _Harrison Ford_ wears lederhosen!? That’s fucking scandalous! He’s way too old to show that much leg!”

The tardy bell rang, and, while Bucky didn’t give a shit, he expected Mr. Sarcastic to throw serious shade in his direction as he ran out the door. But Samwise Gamgee didn’t budge.

Ever since Samwise’s six-foot-tall Frodo had been convalescing in Bucky’s Gay Love Den, making sure that his ribs and brain were at least _sort_ _of_ healed before he revealed his dramatic make-under at school, Sam had been paying _way_ too much attention to Bucky. Like, _way, way, way_ , _way, way_ too much.

 _Way_ too much attention at practice: ‘Bucky, how the hell are we gonna fix this line-up again?’ ‘Bucky, do you think Parker can handle the freestyle relays?’ ‘Bucky, you’ve gotta help me with Fury, man.’

 _Way_ too much attention at lunch: ‘Bucky, should I get one of these hamburgers made with fresh angus beef or should I go for the chicken caesar salad?’ ‘Bucky, where were you second hour? Skinner was looking for you.’ ‘Bucky, should I invite Chloe to Tony’s Halloween party? Or would that be weird because of the whole Macaulay thing, especially since Tony’s bringing the scary tall guy?’

 _Way_ too much attention in the hall: ‘Bucky, can I get your Classical Lit notes? I zoned out.’ ‘Bucky, I heard you talking to Daisy about a get-together at your place to cheer up Steve. Can I come? I’ll bring guacamole.’ ‘Bucky, are you okay? Why are you staring at that bookcase?’

 _Way_ too much attention after school: ‘Bucky, you gotta tell Steve to call me back. I’m worried about him. He keeps sending me smiley face emojis whenever I text him a serious question.’ ‘Bucky, I mean it about the guac. My mom will make it fresh.’

 _Way_ too much attention after they’d gotten their asses handed to them again at last week’s meet: “Bucky, we’re fucked.’

The reason for their new bestie status was clear: Sam was lost without his co-captain. Even though Sam could be annoying (if he said ‘Bucky’ one more time the hammer was gonna drop), he was equally charming, and Bucky really liked him. It was impossible not to.

“C’mon, we’re way past late.” Sam opened the door and kindly held it for Bucky. Steve was right, Sam would give the Knights of the Round Table a run for their money in the chivalry department.

Popping a piece of stolen Big Red gum into his mouth (sorry, Natasha), Bucky slammed his locker, hopped over the bench, and waltzed past Chivalrous Sam to face his first wacko obstacle of the day: getting up the Dead Muppet stairs. One step over rotting Cookie Monster (he was way more bloated than yesterday). Check. Another over Grover’s brain matter. Fuck. He always needed a second for that one. Okay, check. Step number three was over Grover himself. Bucky was gonna get blood on Steve’s shoes...the shoes he’d worn the night Brock had…

“Level with me, man,” Sam said as his sneaker landed right in the middle of Grover’s intestines. The sound it made...a thick squelch as the flies buzzed upwards...made Bucky’s skin itch from the inside. “Do you think Steve’s coming back tomorrow? He keeps replying to my texts with this cryptic shit.”

Bucky involuntarily touched the top pocket of his coat, one tap, two taps, counting the secret hidden deep inside. But he didn’t pop the snap. It was just a fucking staircase! Instead, he unzipped his backpack and grabbed the black and white polka dot sunglasses he’d stolen out of his sister’s purse on the ride to school. The only way he was gonna make it up these blood covered steps was to slide them over his eyes and trudge through the guts in the relative dark.

“Do you want some Big Red?” Bucky held out the pack to Sam when he finally made it to the top step. He’d only gotten a few bloodstains on the tip of the left shoe. “Courtesy of Natasha.”

Both the gum and the shades had been liberated from his sister’s purse while she’d spent the drive angrily staring out the car window; transferred to Bucky’s possession because she’d decided to wake up and give him the silent treatment for no fucking reason. Sure, he’d _accidentally_ overheard her yelling at Clint on the phone last night when he’d _accidentally_ pressed his ear against her bedroom door. Steve had fallen asleep around nine like a sexy grandpa, his puddle of drool huge and quickly expanding, but Bucky’d slurped down a Venti Salted Caramel Mocha Frapp after he’d gone to the bakery, then, after dinner, he’d devoured half the box of Fudgeangelcakes (copyright that shit) and had slammed three Cokes before cuddling up to Grandpa Steve’s soft tum tum. The result? A few hours staring at The Big Dipper on his ceiling until well past midnight, when his bladder had finally reached max capacity. It wasn’t Bucky’s fault that he’d stumbled down the hallway and had _accidentally_ heard Natasha snap, ‘Since you’re so desperate for a status report, let me fill you in! Bucky danced around in my ruined bra singing Madonna for twenty minutes, ate three cans of Spaghettios _before_ dinner, argued with Steve about ‘Dune’ for an hour, ate _more_ than his fair share of chicken parmesan at _actual_ dinner while _still_ wearing my ruined bra, then retired to his bedroom with thirty dollars worth of pastries that he’d smashed to smithereens to do god knows what with his _boyfriend!_ Does that make you feel better, Clint? Was that detailed enough for you use five seconds of your time to answer _my_ question now?’ There had been a really long pause, during which Bucky had _accidentally_ kept his ear plastered to the door, before she’d screamed, ‘Then cut it off! I don’t fucking care!’ The fear that she’d been talking about chopping off Clint’s dick had given Bucky legit nightmares.

Even though there was no way in hell that Natasha could have known about his _accidental_ espionage, she’d given him the cold shoulder at the asscrack of dawn anyway. Such bullshit, especially since he’d needed her to hold the twenty-four flimsy as fuck styrofoam bowls while he’d filled them with authentic ‘Dune’ sand! He’d worked his ass off robbing the sandbox at Prospect Park with nothing but a green plastic shovel that was meant for a fucking five-year-old, a pillowcase, and a baseball hat pulled low; filling his pillowcase scoop by pathetic scoop while a gaggle of overprotective mothers had quickly returned their children to their overpriced strollers. It was supposed to be the perfect Morning Laugh, but Natasha had fucked it all up. As she’d microwaved her apple cinnamon oatmeal with a bad attitude, Bucky’d been so distracted trying to figure out what the hell he’d done wrong that he’d spilled the sand on the kitchen table in one huge mound, burying the bowls completely. Natasha hadn’t even acknowledged the sand cascading over the edge of the checkered tablecloth when she’d taken her delicious smelling oatmeal and had left him standing there holding an empty pillowcase. What a fucking bitch! He’d left the sand there for Steve to snort or whatever, and Bucky was still pissed that she’d ruined his spice joke.

Then, to add insult to injury, when his dad’s Toyota taxi had arrived at Clint’s humble abode, his bestie had climbed in with the hood of Bucky’s missing ‘Guns N Roses’ hoodie pulled down over his eyes. Stolen clothes aside, Bucky had been _way_ more concerned about Clint’s dick, which, after a visual bulge assessment, had thankfully still been making its presence known in his jeans. Once Clint had slammed his door shut, Natasha had implemented her _extreme_ silent treatment; like, the black hole of silence, the vacuum of space silence, the...Bucky couldn’t think of anything more silent than black holes and space...what fucking ever. It had been uncomfortably quiet, and, when Bucky’d opened his mouth to say something, _anything_ to lighten the mood, Clint had grunted, slinked down against the door, and had added his own brand of snarling punk rock silence to the mix.

Ignoring the tension, his dad had proceeded to put on his white jacket and give Bucky his morning ‘mental health check-in’. ‘Yes, I slept well, dad. No bad dreams, just astronaut kittens and space unicorns shitting happiness all over the Milky Way.’ ‘No, I’m not worried about the kids at school bothering me.’ ‘Yes, I can wait ‘till next week to see the therapist again. Dad, I told you, I’m fine.’

Clint had meant well when he’d snitched about whatever the hell had happened in the kitchen, but Bucky’s psycho shit was just shit, and Steve had just gotten rid of all the manure, crap, dookie, poop, and shit in his life. Bucky damn well wasn’t gonna be the one to get Steve dirty again; not when the poor guy was still recovering from being brutally beaten by an abusive psychopath. Not when Steve was spending hours talking on the phone with the local LGBTQ centers to decide which programs he wanted his blood money to go to. So Bucky had lied, and, as he’d answered the same daily questions with the same daily answers, he’d casually slid his hand into his sister’s purse. His score? Sweet polka dot shades and spicy cinnamon gum.

“Earth to Bucky.” Sam waved his fingers in Bucky’s face as they turned down the hallway. “I asked if Steve was coming back tomorrow.”

“You always ask if Steve’s coming back tomorrow.”

“Yeah, but I want a straight answer.”

Adjusting the shades, Bucky made a point to move his feet slower and to loudly snap the gum between his teeth. “The doctor cleared him two days ago, took the stitches out and everything.”

“The pair of you are evasive as hell. Why is throwing me a bone so difficult?” Sam grabbed Bucky’s arm and pulled him down the middle of the hall, his Duckie shoes squeaking as he tried to resist. “C’mon, man, now _I’m_ super late. Move your ass, because I don’t wanna waste another second of my life listening to Kuzinski bitching about you showing up to class whenever you feel like it! Seriously, why the hell were you over half an hour late yesterday?”

“I don’t know.”

Bucky’d stolen that line from a boy in a navy blue pea coat who had shyly ducked behind a yellow school bus somewhere in time. It was their safe answer; a standard issue reply to any inquiry that was too much to handle. ‘I don’t know’ was better than ‘I don’t remember’. It was better than ‘I can’t make him go away’. And, even though Sam looked disappointed as he headed off towards Kuzinski’s inevitable bitch session alone, Bucky knew that saying ‘I don’t know’ was better than blurting out ‘I was holed up in a bathroom stall with TJ Campbell’...

*

  


Bucky had stood in this exact same spot a hundred times...maybe a thousand. He was surprised that his shoes hadn’t left an impression in the floor. Same dark green tiles, same creamy white walls, same old cast iron radiator that would have been hot thirty years ago, but now served only as a place to prop up his feet, or to brace his hands as he lovingly sucked Steve’s cock. But today the stall seemed smaller than normal, the ceiling higher, and the crack in the corner was spidering out towards the center of the room, like the building had settled deeper into its foundation over the past few weeks. Logic would dictate that Bucky should feel claustrophobic, with the walls grinding inwards like that garbage thing that had nearly taken out Luke Skywalker and the gang, but, oddly, when Bucky’d slammed the door to his favorite stall and had locked it behind him, the sound of frantic breaths bouncing off the walls... two metal, two plaster...had begun to slow.

Without looking at him, Bucky began, “I...I see him everywhere. You’ve gotta tell me. Do you? Do _you_ see him?”

His cologne was strong. Not like... _his_...not heavy and choking and forcing Bucky’s stomach to roll at the memory...no, it was light and crisp, but still obvious in the small space. Vanilla? Touching his forehead to the cold door, Bucky inhaled long and deep. Pineapple?

TJ’s voice was barely a whisper when he replied, “I don’t know.”

That was a lie.

Rounding on him, Bucky planted a palm on the metal stall next to TJ’s head. “But you see me freaking out behind a potted plant, grab my elbow, and haul me into this bathroom…”

“You hauled _me_ into the bathroom, Bucky.”

Maybe that was true. _Bucky_ _didn’t know_.

The other hand landed, bracketing TJ between them, and Bucky laughed; lost in the smell of jasmine, or maybe roses. Maybe that was a symptom of whatever the fuck was wrong with him? Not knowing anything.

He could see it now. Bucky would sprawl out in the overly comfortable suede armchair in his new therapist’s office, throwing his legs over the armrest and stare at her with his chin lowered. She’d offer him a bottle of water, refill her miniature humidifier and add a drop of eucalyptus oil, before settling in across from him with her clipboard and overpriced fountain pen.

 

 

_“Bucky, can you tell me what’s been bothering you most since our first appointment?”_

_“Well, Doc, I’m gonna go with the disturbing reality that I don’t know jack shit. Jot down that saucy little detail with your fancy pen. Write a big ol’ paragraph, then highlight the part where I talked about having no fucking clue why my brain decided to go off the rails and analyze how TJ Campbell’s wavy brown hair was slickly pomaded to the side. Pull that yellow marker nice and slow over the sentence where I described how TJ’s hair was longer than I’d ever seen it, and don’t forget to underline the part where I disclosed how mesmerized I was by the ends tickling the collar of his navy blue dress shirt. Got all that? Good. Now write down that I don’t know why Brock decided to park his ass on the bench outside the library, chewing on the end of a green Starbuck’s straw just like he chews on my toes every night. Tell me, Doc, why did that prick have to sit on Steve’s bench, where the tradition of extra whip was born. Oh, I almost forgot...surprise...don’t forget that I have no memory of climbing behind a ficus tree to hyperventilate post sighting. That’s a fun one. But the kicker, the thing that’s been bothering me the most, is not knowing jack shit about how the fuck I ended up in my favorite bathroom stall with someone who wasn’t Steve!”_

  


Bucky’s knuckles cracked against the metal, and he wondered if TJ felt the vibration in the back of his skull. In fact, Bucky wondered _a lot_ of things about TJ. Poking at a stray hair that was escaping over the edge of TJ’s ear, Bucky let the rich smells wash over him before asking, “Why’d you text me the other day if you aren’t gonna talk to me?”

“I don’t know.”

Chuckling softly, Bucky’s upper lip curled a little too much and his teeth felt a little too sharp. “You know what, TJ? _I’m_ the fucking _King_ of ‘I don’t know’, so how about we cut the shit and get real. I wanna know two things. Why’d you text me, and do you see him?”

It _had_ to be apples. Wooden wheels bumping on a hayride through an orchard. _That’s_ what TJ smelled like. It was on his collar, his throat...

“Um...Bucky, you should probably…”

...behind his ear. The little hairs were like fresh slices of honeycrisp apples spread out on a paper plate... _nothing_ like blueberries.

“Brock showed up Tuesday. That’s why I texted you again, okay?”

Bucky froze. _Again?_

“He showed up at the café where I do my homework sometimes. I was drinking coffee, working on a paper, my head was buried in my laptop...I didn’t see him come in.”

Closing his eyes, Bucky felt TJ’s heart beating in his chest. It was fast, like he’d been running down a narrow alley trying to escape a monster. Bucky relaxed his fingers, letting them slide down the metal divider to find slender shoulders, and realized that was _exactly_ what TJ’d been doing.

“The place was crowded, loud, and I had my earbuds in. Brock, he…he reached over my shoulder and slammed my laptop shut...it was shitty. He made a scene when I wouldn’t go out back with him. Bucky, I know you said that you didn’t want to talk about it any more, but maybe I was the one who needed to talk this time. I don’t know.”

_This time?_

TJ was shaking, leaning forward into hands that Bucky barely remembered placing, and Bucky was too close. Their chests were touching. There were apples, and Brock...

Dropping his arms, Bucky stepped backwards to swallow the lump in his throat. “Brock showed up in real life?”

“I thought that’s what you meant when you asked if I’d seen him…?” TJ squinted his eyes, his confusion evident, and reached forward like he was going to touch Bucky’s dangling fingers. There were only two inches between them when TJ changed his mind and loosened his burgundy and blue striped tie instead. He was too young to wear a tie every day.

“Did Brock touch you?”

Bucky knew the answer before he’d asked the question. It was obvious by the way TJ was tugging at his tie, by the hint of sweat building on his brow, and the subtle shake of his long fingers.

“I’m gonna just take this off. Sorry, I just need to...I feel really hot.” Pulling the strip of silk quickly out of his collar, TJ undid the top two buttons of his dress shirt.

“He touched you, didn’t he?” Moving backwards until his ass hit the radiator, Bucky wished that it was piping hot; that the history of this building would come roaring back to life and scald the shit out of his ass; his own version of a scarlet letter.

TJ had a thousand yard stare, his eyes locked on the huge spider web that was in the far corner behind to the toilet. Bucky’d named the spider Fillmore before any of this had started; when this bathroom stall had been nothing more than a place to avoid the torture of physics labs, to waste time daydreaming about the unattainable Steve Rogers’ cute ass in a tight pair of dumb khakis, and to stare out the window wishing that he was shoving spicy tacos, dripping with sour cream, into his mouth instead of being stuck at school. It had been the first week of school when Bucky’d taped the little sign above the web that read, ‘Please don’t kill me. My name is Fillmore and this is my home.’ He was still alive, getting bigger, and Bucky always said ‘hi’ to his eight-legged buddy whenever he was on his knees sucking Steve off. Bucky wondered if TJ liked spiders too?

“That’s my pet spider, Fillmore. I’d let you pet him, but he’s a spider...so…”

“I lied to you before,” TJ interrupted. “When I told you that Brock just pushes me around and calls me names. I guess...I don’t know, Bucky...I didn’t want you to think of me like that.”

_Before?_

TJ stopped looking at Fillmore and stared at Bucky instead; hazel eyes and pinched eyebrows, shameful and sad...it all felt so familiar. “I stupidly thought that getting Brock expelled would put an end to it, but he keeps showing up, and...at the café...he threatened me…” TJ trailed off, working his heart shaped jaw and swallowing hard enough to make his Adam’s apple bob in his throat; an Adam’s apple that smelled like apples...pink ladies, gala, honeycrisp, red delicious… “You know what?” TJ sniffed, running a hand across his nose. “I _did_ go out back with Brock after he made that scene. I _didn’t_ tell him to leave. I _didn’t_ yell for help. I didn’t even say anything when he spilled my coffee all over my laptop. _That’s_ the truth. I stood up, shoved the wet computer in my bag and walked out the back door with him. I let that asshole shove his dick in my mouth in the dirty alley and squirt come in my eyes, because that’s what I _always_ do.”

The tie fell to the floor where it landed in a heap next to Bucky’s purple stained baby blue shoes.

“I’ve never told anyone, but you’ve been so open with me, Bucky.”

_Open with him?_

“Even Frank doesn’t know the whole story. I told him enough after homecoming...after we got you and Steve into the limo...but not everything. And I know you said that we shouldn’t talk anymore, but you didn’t mean it. At least, I don’t think you meant it...”

TJ was talking faster and faster...too fucking fast...and Bucky felt sick, like he had vertigo. The whole stall slanted to the left as Bucky tracked a bead of sweat as it slid past TJ’s temple to follow the sharp line of his cheekbone, dancing between the freckles dusting his skin. Bucky’d never noticed them before. Did they only come out in the summer?

“I _always_ do what Brock wants because I don’t have a choice. He set me up, Bucky. After Jack posted that picture of you and me...kissing…”

God, that seemed like so long ago. The fumblings of two curious kids underneath the shadowy bleachers, a first kiss ruined by the flash of a camera.

“Brock had planned the whole thing ahead of time; _hiring_ a guy to show up at Ezra’s next party. He’d given this kid five-hundred-dollars, a bag of coke, and had told him exactly which bedroom to take me to. He was paid to quietly hit on me, lure me upstairs to get me high, then take off my shirt off and make sure he pulled my pants down far enough so everything would show in the pictures. Brock had been hiding in the bathroom, like the closeted perv that he is, just waiting with his fucking camera to get a clear shot of the whole scene. I never even knew he was there.”

The room rocked back in the other direction as TJ undid another button and scratched at the skin below his collarbone ‘till it was red. Steve had a _fuzzy_ chest, little blond curls sticking out all over the place. Bucky liked to rub his nose around in them and pretend that Steve was an alpaca. But the chest that was peeking out from three unfastened buttons was smooth and full of tiny summertime freckles. But it wasn’t summer anymore. It was cold enough that Bucky’d thrown on the ridiculous white sweater he’d picked up at Sal’s to keep him warm. The little green alligator had been the selling point. A happy alligator chillin’ on a weirdly bright cotton oasis. Bright like snow. TJ could ski on it. Maybe Bucky could strap on a snowboard too?

“Later, I was pacing the room, staring at the stranger who’d given me my first shitty blow job and _desperately_ wanting to come down. I swear to god, Bucky, I’d _never_ done coke before that night. I know what everyone thinks about me...most of it’s true...but that was the first time that I’d done _any_ hard drugs, and it wasn’t a good experience. I did way too much, my heart wouldn’t stop pounding, I couldn’t stop climbing the walls…” There was hesitation before TJ unbuttoned his cuffs and rolled his sleeves up to his elbows. His watch looked like it cost over a grand. Silver with diamonds. What a stupid waste of money. Steve had just given away the equivalent of _ten_ silver and diamond watches to the sad gay kids of New York.

“You know what’s funny?” Swiping his hand across his nose again, TJ chuckled. “The guy had long brown hair like yours; pretty and wavy...bright blue eyes...a leather jacket kinda like that one. I’m sure Brock planned that too.” TJ paused, maybe to let that sink in, maybe to find some courage, but Bucky was glad that he’d stopped. He needed a second to catch his fucking breath.

Stretching his arms out in front of him, Bucky slowly rotated his wrists back and forth to take in every buckle, every wrinkle, and every scratched piece of black leather covering the cotton. He wanted to say that it felt like his world was caving in, but it was worse. The coat wasn’t one of Bucky’s treasured vintage store finds, it wasn’t Clint’s, or Steve’s...but even though he’d never seen it before, he felt...nothing.

Bucky bent up his elbow and stared at the round patch on his elbow until his eyes started watering and the red star turned blurry.

“What was his name?” he heard himself ask, not like it mattered.

“I don’t know,” TJ scoffed. “All I know is that, at some point, he had the decency to roll over on the bed and look guilty. I was so high, the room was literally buzzing, but the second he looked at me like that, I knew I was in trouble. He gave me a couple downers, told me the whole story, then let me cry into his hair until I finally passed out. I woke up to an empty room and found a note that said ‘sorry’ with two Vicodins making the eyes on a frowny face. When Brock showed up to school with a crystal clear shot of my dick in the guy’s mouth and a mirror full of coke on the table next to me, I popped both pills at the same time. You see, all Brock has to do is email that picture to my family and they’ll disown me. I don’t have anything to leverage with like Steve did. There won’t be any _deal_ to get a Prius and a free ride to the Ivy league. When you told me what Tony did for Steve, I was happy for him. I _am_ happy for him. But my life isn’t like his. I don’t have close friends like Steve does, or someone like Tony Stark in my back pocket, and I certainly don’t have someone…” Pausing, he locked eyes with Bucky. “I don’t have someone like _you_...” TJ swallowed hard, gazing towards the spiderweb before he whispered, “That was almost two years ago.”

Turning his back on TJ, Bucky squeezed his fingers around the window ledge as hard as he could. It was the only way to stop himself from punching a hole in the plaster. But he didn’t feel anger or rage...it wasn’t sorrow or pain that had him envisioning his fists slamming into the wall over and over until his knuckles dripped blood. It was a desire born from emptiness...from _nothing_.

Bucky had stood in this exact same spot, looking out the exact same window, a hundred times...maybe a thousand...but he’d never heard the heavy buzzing sound creeping along the floorboards, and he’d never felt the tiles moving beneath his feet. For years, his mouth had watered as he’d watched the bakery windows fill up with fresh lemon squares and perfectly dusted angel wings, but he’d never thought about staring down the barrel of a rifle and shooting out the windows when the blueberry scones arrived. Not until today.

Steve loves cupcakes...Bucky repeated it like a mantra in his head, trying to make himself feel _something_. Steve loves cupcakes. He loves the ones with buttercream frosting the most. Bucky preferred chocolate, but Steve loved licking every last drop of buttercream off the wrapper after he’d swallowed his vanilla cupcake in three huge bites. Steve loves buttercream...with rainbow sprinkles…

          _...No you don’t, cupcake..._

Jesus, that fucking noise. When Bucky hit his head against the glass to try to make it shut up, he noticed that TJ’s tie had gotten tangled around his shoe. ‘Shake it off, shake it off’ popped into his head, T Swift’s buttercream voice bouncing on top of a gravedigger’s beat.

Steve loves fudge brownies too. The kind with the nuts and the gooey tops…

Ignoring Taylor’s wise advice, Bucky used his purple polka dot toe to drag the tie up the tiled wall until he caught the fabric in his left hand; striped silk sliding between his fingers three inches below a carefully fastened red leather cuff.

Steve loves...something with cookies and that fluffy white stuff…

When he hit his head this time, it was because he couldn’t remember… He couldn’t fucking remember…

Another tray of pastries appeared, but Bucky didn’t feel connected to anything that he saw through the glass pane...not the bumper to bumper taxis tailgating and honking, not the guy from the Mexican restaurant pointlessly sweeping leaves in the fall wind, not the little blond kid holding his mother’s hand as he proudly held up his pink cotton candy for Bucky to see...none of it. Bucky released his cramping fingers, and the truth spilled out of his mouth like water; easy and flowing.

“I see Brock _everywhere_. I can smell his rank aftershave when I’m trying to fall asleep. Even when Steve has his strong arms wrapped around me, I can still feel Brock’s hand grabbing at my belt. No matter how tightly Steve holds on to me, I can’t stop thinking about how powerless I was when his hands were crushing my dick. It’s nothing like you’ve been through, god, TJ, I’m so sorry! But it’s...it’s getting worse, and I need someone who understands to know what’s happening.” Bucky squeezed his eyes shut and jumped over the edge. “I’m going crazy.”

“I know.”

_I know?_

Bucky filled his lungs, letting his ribs spread apart as he muttered, “I already told you.”

“Yeah, you did. Last week when we were on the roof.”

_The roof._

If Bucky remembered this moment, if it survived the chaos of spying fruit, missing toes, and the shame that came with weakness, it would be a giant red X on his calendar; forever known as the moment he realized that he was going to ruin everything.

Tracing the edge of the window pane with his finger, Bucky said, “When Clint and I were baking cookies the other night, I had to fight the urge to shove his head in the oven and burn off that fucking blue hair. I despise it.”

           _...burn, burn, yes ya gonna burn..._

“Why do you hate it so much?”

Bucky almost said ‘I don’t know’, but instead he told the truth. “It doesn’t matter.”

Squeezing his eyes closed, Bucky tried to remember the last time he’d been able to shove all the noise and shit to the side...the last time he’d felt truly happy. Over the buzzing, the sound of crispy leaves crunching beneath Steve’s new sneakers made him relax. Monday. Just a few days ago. Steve and Bucky had gone out to spend some of Alexander’s money on clothes. He’d only bought five things. But Steve’s inability to spend money on himself wasn’t the point. The _point_ was that Bucky had been happy that day; holding Steve’s hand like a dork... laughing at nothing...letting Steve ride piggyback as Bucky’d jogged down the subway platform...listening to him bitch about his ribs with every joyful step. Monday. On _Monday,_ Bucky had felt young and in love, even though his man suit had been hiding his real hand like a glove.

                                                

Suddenly, there was a new sound. A bottle maybe? A rattle, a shake, little somethings spilling out like Tic-Tacs. Maybe they were Tic-Tacs…?

Bucky spun around just in time to see TJ place a really big, white Tic-Tac (that looked a whole lot like a Vicodin) on his tongue and swallow it dry. As TJ sat down on the toilet, Bucky couldn’t help but notice how his shoulders were protruding too sharply through his fitted shirt and the way his collar bones were pushing through the skin where they peeked out beneath three undone buttons.

Dammit. What was that dessert...marshmallow? Was it marshmallow on the end of Steve’s finger? Was that what he’d tasted when Bucky’d sensually licked it off?

Why couldn’t he stop himself from openly staring at TJ’s pale skin, pulling the tie tight between his hands hands as he counted freckles.

          _...burn, burn, yes ya gonna burn..._

Letting his Chucks slide out from underneath him, Bucky blew a stream of air across the stall as he sank to the cold tiled floor. Here he was again, dejá vu, glitching in the Matrix, staring at TJ Campbell’s fucking knees.

“I love Steve,” Bucky started, because it needed to be said. “I love how brave he is and the way he makes me feel beautiful when I wake up with ratty hair and dragon breath. He laughs at all my stupid jokes, asks me to sing him power ballads in the shower, writes me poems that I don’t always understand, doodles planets and stars on random napkins and the corners of pizza boxes, and he tries _so fucking hard_ . I don’t want to be with anyone else... _ever_. I have this whole fantasy about wrapping my thighs around Steve as we ride our Revenge Harley across the country to see The Grand Canyon or some shit. No helmets, no safety net...nothing but the money in our wallets, a full tank of gas, half a pack of cigarettes, and dark sunglasses on our smiling faces as we race towards a never ending sunset.”

Bucky looped TJ’s tie around his purple spotted shoe and pulled it tight enough to make his fingers turn purple too. When he cracked his head backwards against the wall, Bucky saw that Fillmore had caught a fly in his web. Good for him.

“So why are you here with me?” TJ whispered.

Anger built in Bucky’s stomach; pure rage directed at the fucking leaves, the indecisive wind, the dying fly, and the goddamn sun for daring to set as the needle on the tank took a nosedive to E.

“Well, since I have zero memory of getting here, that’s gonna be a tough one to answer. The last thing I remember, before teleporting, was seeing my imaginary friend, Brock, waiting patiently to check out a book called ‘How to Murder Bucky Barnes’ from the media center. Then I’m pretty sure that I tried using a sparse plant for cover like a James Bond reject, and, _poof_ , I was locking the door of my very favorite bathroom stall with you trapped inside. Big chunks of missing time are my new normal. I’m pretty sure that I’ve eaten like twenty cans of Spaghettios in the past week. Wanna know how many I remember consuming? _One_. I don’t know how I haven’t gained ten pounds. Maybe I’ve taken up jogging around the neighborhood in the middle of the night to burn off the extra calories? It’s a real mystery.

“Steve has his own very serious shit to deal with, and, since he just moved in with me, now probably isn’t the best time to snuggle into his arms...don’t forget one is _broken_...and woo him with sweet nothings like, ‘Stevie, I’m so happy we’ve made a long term commitment to one another. By the way, my brain is turning to mush. Sleep tight’.

“Oh, and my go-to guy, Clint, hasn’t been super chatty since I _apparently_ went postal on him in my kitchen. And, since his hair seems to trigger wonderful ideas like shoving his head in the fucking oven, I’m thinking I need a new option for lovely fireside chats about my declining sanity. My sister’s been hot and cold, Tony stole Skinner and whisked him off to better things at MIT, Daisy tried to give me half a blueberry Pop Tart last week, which means she’s in on it, and my dad keeps asking me every five seconds if he needs to check me into Arkham Asylum. I can’t deal with him freaking out any more than he already is.

“Plus…” Bucky watched his hands wrapping the tie around TJ’s ankle before snaking it around his own. “...none of them would understand.”

The Tic-Tacs rattled again, and Bucky stared at TJ’s navy blue socks while he pulled the tie tighter and tighter. TJ had always looked good in navy; a winter pea coat with the collar flipped up against the chilly fall wind, the color standing out against his pale skin and dark hair...the click of the lid opening, the hollow sound of the tumbling pills, the lid popping back into place, and, finally, a hand offered out in front of Bucky’s chest. “ _I_ understand.”

It was oval. White. Maybe it was the opening of a wormhole to the past, or the future. A place where boys didn’t get out of bed to chase giant grey bunny nightmares in the middle of the night. “TJ, can I ask you a question?”

Closing his fingers around the pill, TJ touched Bucky’s bent knee. “Yeah?”

“Have you seen ‘Donnie Darko’?

There was a long pause before TJ slid off the toilet to squeeze next to Bucky on the cold floor. With their legs bent at the same angle, TJ’s knees were at least an inch lower, his feet a size smaller. “Yes. More than once. Why?”

“How’s it feel to have a wacko for a friend?”

The wait for TJ’s answer was torture. Half of Bucky wanted him to answer like Steve did; clueless, innocent, sweet... _distracted_. But the other half? The part that was looping the tie around their neighboring ankles and tying them together ‘bunny-ear style’ like a five-year-old? That half was begging for some kind of relief...

Bucky waited to pull the knot, glancing at TJ’s face while his hands stood frozen on Frank the Bunny’s ears. Waiting...waiting...he spied four freckles that looked like the big dipper shining on TJ’s sharp cheek...glowing just like the stars that Bucky had stared at every night since his dad climbed a ladder to stick them on his ceiling...the stars that Bucky loved sleeping under with _Steve_. But somehow, when TJ quoted the movie perfectly, whispering, “It feels wonderful,” the ceiling morphed into understanding skin, and Bucky pulled the bunny ears tight.

Their knees relaxed simultaneously, falling together in the center as Bucky asked, “28 days...6 hours...42 minutes...twelve seconds. How long do you think we have until our world ends?”

“You mean, before Brock falls from the sky like a jet engine and smashes through the roof to crush us in our sleep? How long until we don’t know what’s real and what’s imaginary? How long until we feel like we’re going crazy and we aren’t sure if we even care? C’mon, Bucky. You know we’re both already counting down the seconds ‘til that engine comes back around and ends us.”

Bucky let out a little gasp as tears welled up in his eyes.

“I told you that I understand,” TJ said softly as the Vicodin rolled into the center of his palm. “Here, take it. It will make him go away...at least for a little while.”

You plan for your life to go in one direction, then a wormhole exploring the nature of destiny weaves its way into your life and fucks everything up. Bucky sucked in a deep breath and took the pill out of TJ’s hand. His skin smelled like apples...simple, clean apples...and, as the scent washed over him, Bucky opened his mouth.

It took a few tries to get it down, but the second the pill hit his stomach, the zipper to Bucky’s man suit started coming undone.

*

  
  
Now, with Sam completely out of sight, Bucky pushed Natasha’s sunglasses on top of his head and frantically dug around in the top pocket of his jacket. It had to be in here! Fuck. He’d been so fucking careful that he hadn’t tipped the coat upside-down when he’d put it in his locker before practice. Right side up to make things right. Right as rain like Gene Kelly, singing and dancing with an umbrella like a Droog at the Flat Block Marina. Right side up was reality, and what was hidden in his pocket would get rid of everything that was upside-down. He didn’t need Eleven to get him out...or Steve...Bucky had a plan...if he could find the fucking thing! God fucking dammit!

 _Finally_ , his fingertips landed on the giant white Tic-Tac, and Bucky popped it in his mouth before the blueberries spies could see it. They’d rat him out to Clint; their headquarters were in his hideous blue hair after all. Quickly swallowing the evidence, Bucky pulled out two more pieces of Natasha’s cinnamon gum to wash away the taste. Chomping and chewing, Bucky sucked down the sugar as he adjusted the polka dot sunglasses back over his eyes and tossed the uncrumpled wrappers over his shoulder.

Putting on Mary Poppins’ perfect English lilt, Bucky waltzed down the center of the hall like he owned the place, singing, “A spoonful of sugar helps the medicine go down, medicine go down. Just a spoonful of sugar helps the medicine go down, in the most delightful way.”

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone for sticking with me on this story and for all your amazing comments and kudos. I LOVE LOVE LOVE talking about these sad, goofy, sexy, screwed up boys, so hit me up! Let’s chat! Also, answer this chapter’s trivia questions in the comments and I’ll send you virtual goodies & mad respect!
> 
> TRIVIA  
> 1\. What is the line, “Thursday; the day he should have gotten to hide under the blankets for an extra forty-five minutes and see how many times he could lick Steve’s nipple without waking him up (last week’s record: seventeen licks to reach the center).” referencing?
> 
> 2\. I’m loosely quoting a famous movie when Bucky says, “No helmets, no safety net...nothing but the money in our wallets, a full tank of gas, half a pack of cigarettes, and dark sunglasses on our smiling faces as we race towards a never ending sunset.” Any idea which one?
> 
> 3\. Wardrobe trivia. What brand of sweater is Bucky wearing in this scene? “It was cold enough that Bucky’d thrown on the ridiculous white sweater he’d picked up at Sal’s to keep him warm. The little green alligator had been the selling point. A happy alligator chillin’ on a weirdly bright cotton oasis.” 
> 
>  
> 
> MOOD MUSIC: [JessieLucidYouTube](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLbGnycMfOsiAUHpM-o_iv3gefEDgLC0cm)
> 
> Steve POV  
> *The Verve- She’s a Superstar  
> *Paramore- All I Wanted  
> *Michael Andrews (feat. Gary Jules)- Mad World (Steve’s POV)  
> *The Boxer Rebellion- Both Sides Are Even  
> *Incubus- The Original  
> *Inara George- Fools in Love  
> *Taylor Swift- So It Goes  
> *Twenty One Pilots- Screen (end of Steve POV, but it’s Bucky’s vibe)
> 
> Bucky POV  
> *Ed Sheeran- Make It Rain  
> *Lil Peep- Awful Things  
> *Matchbox Twenty- Unwell  
> *The Jimi Hendrix Experience- Little Wing  
> *The Weeknd (feat. Ed Sheeran)- Dark Times  
> *Soundgarden- Pretty Noose  
> *Apocalyptica- Nothing Else Matters (Metallica)  
> *Hozier- In the Woods Somewhere  
> *Michael Andrews (feat. Gary Jules)- Mad World (Bucky’s POV)  
> *Son Lux- You Don’t Know Me
> 
> Find my Stucky Art on Instagram & Tumblr
> 
>  
> 
> [JessieLucidArtInstagram](https://www.instagram.com/jessielucidart/)  
> [lucidnancyboyTumbr](https://lucidnancyboy.tumblr.com)
> 
>  
> 
> And I’m new to Twitter (JessieLucid), so give me a follow and help me out. I have like 4 followers. Very embarrassing. *snort
> 
> Next up for the boys! Halloween!!!!!!!!! (even though it’s almost Christmas and this chapter was supposed to be Halloween...lmao.) But this time, I really really really mean it!


	22. Glitter and Gold

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I need to give an extra special shout out to my selfless beta [Lorien](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lorien/pseuds/Lorien%0A) who spent hours upon hours nitpicking this beast of a chapter (her nitpicking skills are astounding). She keeps my tangents under control (somewhat), encourages me bump up the sexy times, and makes me a better writer. Also, I screwed up Steve's face BIG TIME on the macaroni drawing and she used her mad Photoshop skills to fix him, lol. Please check out her gorgeous Stucky art and send her some love here [drjezdzany](https://drjezdzanyart.tumblr.com)
> 
> Music plays an extra important role in this chapter, so if you’d like the full experience check out the Chapter 22 playlist here [JessieLucidYouTube](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLbGnycMfOsiAHiTcMXeeVb9y0B0kZXXZ8)
> 
> I’ve cued several specific songs in the chapter if you’d like to play them while you read. I especially recommend listening to “Bucky Done Gone” by M.I.A. during Bucky’s POV. I captures his manic energy perfectly. I’ve listed all the songs and the specific POVs that they inspired in the end notes. 
> 
> Last but definitely not least, many of my heavier tags are coming into play. Please be aware and feel free to ask if you need specifics before reading. Tags: severe PTSD, Dissociative Identity Disorder, heavily implied non-con, cheating (sort of), drug and alcohol abuse. There’s lots of funny, happy stuff too.

  


Clint popped the collar on his beat up leather jacket and tightened the strings on the black hoodie. It was stupidly cold and he should’ve grabbed a fucking scarf (actually,  _ two _ fucking scarves) because if you’re gonna drag your girlfriend to an abandoned shipyard to break up with her, you probably shouldn’t add frostbite to the mix. God, he was an idiot.

“Sucks that it’s gonna be another cold Halloween, huh?” Clint sat down next to her on the edge of the water, the concrete wall instantly dropping his ass twenty degrees. And Nat? Well, Nat kept right on pretending that he didn’t exist. Seems that making her squeeze between two crumbling warehouses, climb a rusted chain link fence, and slide down a dirty roof wasn’t the best way to break the ice. Like he’d said: idiot.

Instead of pondering how much he’d pissed his girlfriend off  _ before _ he’d said one word about ending their relationship, Clint decided to think deep thoughts about the fate of this year’s trick-or-treaters. In a couple days, every kid in the northeastern United States (fucking polar vortex) was gonna freeze their ass off  _ and _ be massively pissed when their parents brought down the ‘dress for the weather’ hammer and ruined their costumes. Seriously, making kids wear winter coats over Donatello turtle shells, knit hats over Harley Quinn two-tone pigtails, and thick gloves that covered up their pop star fingernail polish was one of the great evils of good parenting. Not only did you _ still  _ freeze, but you didn’t even get to look cool doing it! Clint had never rolled like that. He’d always ditched his coat as soon as he was out of his mom’s line of sight, and she’d always had a hot mug of cocoa waiting for him when he turned up two hours later with blue fingers and five pounds of candy. No lectures and no eye rolls (okay, maybe a few eye rolls), just hot chocolate, marshmallows, and her annoying tradition of stealing all of his Milky Ways. 

Thankfully, Nat had worn her new plaid wool coat, warm cream gloves, and a matching winter hat with a fuzzy little ball on top.

“Good thing you put on your winter coat,” Clint tried. “Wish I’d been that smart.”

“Especially since giving me frostbite seems to be the extent of your top secret plan,” she snipped, rolling back her shoulders and staring at him with her perfectly narrowed eyes...waiting.

Her intensity made Clint’s oxblood boots feel heavy, like if he pushed his ass off the edge of the crumbling wall, he’d sink to the bottom of the East River to rot with the corpses still stuck in their concrete shoes: addicts who’d stolen dope from the wrong dealers, gamblers who’d run out of money and time, low rent mobsters who’d served their purpose...Clint knew they were all down there in various stages of decay. Three weeks might have passed since Bucky’d yelped Brock’s name in the kitchen of the Overlook Hotel, but even though Bucky’s dad had gotten him a therapist, Clint couldn’t shake the fear that his scary pow wow with the refrigerator had only been the beginning. Staring into the black water below his feet, Clint imagined Brock pouring concrete over screaming men’s feet with sadistic pleasure in his eyes.

Maybe Clint shouldn’t have brought her here. 

“When I used to come here as a kid,” he started (because he had to start somewhere), “Manhattan was the only thing I saw. I barely noticed the giant cranes and massive stacks of shipping containers on this side of the river, which is nuts since they’ve always been stacked six or seven high in the Red Hook Terminal over there.” A piece of crumbling concrete had found its way into Clint’s hand, and he motioned towards the faded red, blue, and brown crates before throwing it at the furthest piling. When it hit, a huge piece of yellow paint broke off and a bunch of seagulls took off all around them. He prayed they didn’t get shit on.

Nat didn’t say a word. 

“I’d sit in this very spot for hours and that’s when movies started coming to life inside my head.” Clint was rambling, because  _ quiet _ Nat was even scarier than  _ yelling _ Nat. He knew it. She knew it. But he rambled on, like a ramblin’ man. Honestly, it would be way easier if she just went ahead and sucker punched him and screamed ‘go fuck yourself!’, but there was nothing except narrowed green eyes and the sinking feeling that he’d never come back from this. No more invites to Mr. Barnes’ famous spaghetti dinners, no more cramming onto the couch with Nat’s feet in his lap for Netflix binges, no more getting in trouble when his mom caught them napping with his body wrapped too closely around hers… or  _ anyones _ . No more ice cream.

“Before I met your brother, I came here all the time. With my mom always working late, I’d skate here instead of going home to an empty apartment...before she got Lucky to keep me company. I mean, I guess I’ve never stopped coming here...I was just here a few weeks ago...but it was more back then.” God, he was talking too much. Why the hell would Nat give a crap about Clint’s lonely, sad puppy dog stories when it was perfectly obvious that he’d dragged her here to end things? Answer: she wouldn’t, but his mouth kept right on running. “Anyway, I must’ve been in fifth grade when I found this place. That would that have made me what? Ten?” Clint turned his face into the bitter wind and pulled the hood even tighter. “Jesus,  _ ten _ . I probably shouldn’t have been jumping turnstiles and getting my kicks running away from the Transit Police so I could hop on random trains, but the truth is, breaking into a spooky shipyard and practicing ollies three feet from the river was better than watching hours of ‘NCIS’ reruns by myself. This whole stretch of waterfront is supposed to be contaminated or something; that’s why the developers haven’t gotten their hands on it yet.” 

One would think that the possibility of toxic chemicals leaching into their asses would have made Nat at least  _ blink _ , but apparently the silent treatment/death glare superseded radiation poisoning. 

More talking then...

“I’d spend hours bringing my comic books to life; visualizing Johnny Storm, Spawn, The Saint of Killers, Rorschach, and even Scott Pilgrim battling it out in the city. Huge explosions, alien invasions, giant demigods...the works.” Spreading out his fingers in front of Nat’s face, Clint framed up the Manhattan end of the Brooklyn Bridge. “Just picture it: a hundred foot long purple octopus wraps its tentacles around the length of the bridge, squeezing as the cars tumble over the sides and the steel beams snap, the scene perfectly captured by a sweeping bird's eye helicopter shot for max dramatic effect...” 

Instead of looking through his frame, Nat pointedly turned in the other direction and stared right past him towards The Statue of Liberty. Since there weren’t any giant purple octopuses, octopi,  _ or _ octonauts attacking Lady Liberty on this freezing cold Saturday morning, he could only assume that avoiding his ugly mug had inspired her sudden patriotism. 

Clint scraped his heels against the rough wall and dropped his hands. Without any ticket buyers for his octopus flick, he let his eyes drift to the Freedom Tower. Every time he’d climbed the fence, he’d squinted across the river to try and figure out how many floors they’d added since his last adventure in trespassing. Fuck, this was so stupid! He just wanted to touch Nat’s soft pink cheek and place a gentle kiss on her temple before asking Dr. Manhattan to shoot them back a few years in time. But, lacking a supernatural option, Clint whispered, “The first time I came here, I almost killed myself sliding down that roof…”

“You mean the roof that snagged my new coat and got tar all over my jeans?”

This wasn’t going well at all.

“Yeah, that one.” Clint shook his head because he’d been about to tell her some bullshit about how he’d scraped the hell out of his hands and he’d had to wash the blood off with a bottle of Sprite that he’d stashed in his backpack. Stupid. So, what did he say instead?

“Yeah, I scraped the hell out of my hands and had to wash the blood off with a bottle of Sprite that I’d stashed in my backpack.” Clint groaned at his own idiocy, but soldiered on. “It sucked, but after making it all the way here I wasn’t gonna pussy out ‘cause of a few cuts. I toughed it out and stared at the Freedom Tower till way past sunset. It wasn’t even half way up back then.” Letting out a nervous laugh, Clint wanted to touch her cheek so bad, or to pull her into his lap and make sure she was warm, but he’d already closed that door. Nat’s tight jaw and clasped hands proved that. 

“My mom lost her mind and knocked on half the doors in Brooklyn before she finally called the cops; all because ten-year-old me got lost imagining how kickass Dr. Manhattan would look standing on top of the tower. I plotted out this whole story where he used the giant metal beams to contain a powerful portal that could manipulate the fabric of space and time itself. By the time I finally figured out how the hell to get back home, it was way past ten, and, let me tell ya, the cops standing in my living room didn’t give a flying fuck about the ‘Watchmen’.”

Clint sighed, because, even all these years later, he still saw Dr. Manhattan perched on top with his big blue dick swinging. He rubbed his eyes in an attempt to make childish things go away, but Clint sucked at that...he sucked at letting go of anything really. Old guitars, useless CDs, ticket stubs from every concert he’d ever gone to, dozens of shoes he’d outgrown, broken jewelry...he couldn’t get rid of any of it! Skinner called him a hoarder; threatening to call TLC every time he came over which was annoying. Just because a guy has a VIP lanyard from the 2014 New York Comic Con hanging over his lamp (where he and Bucky’d met Kevin Smith  _ and _ Kevin Bacon), his first guitar (a red Fender Squier Mini Strat covered with Metallica and Tool stickers) shoved under his bed even though he’d cracked the neck five years ago, and a denim vest hanging in his closet that hasn’t fit over his shoulders since the great testosterone flood of eighth grade, it doesn’t mean he’s a fucking hoarder! Daisy was nice enough to call him ‘nostalgic’. She was sweet like that.

Covering his face, Clint fell back onto the concrete and laughed. But it wasn’t happy like when he’d licked the side of Nat’s face in the photo booth, or goofy like when she’d slid a neon green condom onto his dick with a wink, or ridiculous like when they’d tried on matching horse masks at the costume shop. That kind of laughter was amazing, wonderful, transformative, but this...this was the fucked up variety that meant Clint was at a complete and total loss.

Squinting up at the back of Nat’s fuzzy winter hat, he mumbled, “You know that vest in my closet?”

“There’s millions of vests in your closet.”

“The one with all the pins that’s hanging on the hook. It’s in your face when you open the door.”

“I’m ten seconds from leaving, Clint. I’m already counting in my head.”

“C’mon. Would you just listen?” 

She groaned but didn’t move. He had roughly eight seconds to make some kind of semi-coherent point. 

“The pins are getting so old that most of them are bubbling and cracking; anarchy symbols, pot leafs, the hand flipping the bird...all the things that I thought were so cool in middle school are disintegrating right before my very eyes.”

“You  _ still _ think all those things are cool,” Nat scoffed. “There’s an anarchy pin on your jacket right now!”

Lifting his head enough to peek at his chest, Clint did, in fact, have a big red ‘A’ pinned on the pocket next to ‘Lil Peep’. Five seconds left.

“Have you ever noticed the big PFLAG pin in the middle?” That got Nat to at least look at him, her face softening (not really), and maybe earning Clint some extra time on the clock. “Some weird little Russian kid who you might know handed it to me a few days after I taught him how to smoke weed. Said your dad gave him a bunch after he’d noticed the search history on the family computer was filled with shit like ‘sexy guy body’ and ‘me like naked guy’.” Clint couldn’t help but smile a little at the memory because he could hear Bucky’s words like it was yesterday; his voice still touched by a heavy accent with only slightly passable English...

 

  
_ “Before you put the smoke in my mouth again, I wanna make clear I like boys. You know this, right? From the big tits magazines you show me, with lady parts spread open, I know you like girls. So, here, I bring you button to wear.” _

 

  
“That pin was how he came out to me.” Clint sighed, squeezing his eyes shut to try to stop the growing list of nostalgia expanding in his mind. “And that safety pin necklace hanging from my curtain rod? He gave that to me for my fourteenth birthday. Those pins never stayed closed, and I got stabbed so many times that all my collars had blood stains! I had to force it into early retirement due to excessive blood loss, and it’s been hanging there ever since. I even dust that shit!” 

Nat’s eyes had grown sugar glider wide (but distinctly less friendly), and, in the absence of any other solution, Clint wrapped his cold hands around his neck and squeezed. There might be three layers of fabric and leather covering the silver padlock that Bucky’d locked around Clint’s neck on Christmas that same year, but the weight of it on his sternum made its presence known; just like it had when Clint’d had to go to the ER when he’d fucked up his collarbone bailing on a grind. The x-ray technician had given Clint so much crap because he didn’t have the fucking key! And why was that? Bucky hadn’t given him one, that’s why! Clint squeezed until the links were digging into his skin and his brain started pulsating, because the padlock had been the beginning of his downward spiral.

A few days after Bucky had clicked the lock (somewhere in the phantom zone that exists between Santa’s break-in and the fat baby swigging champagne), Clint had gotten a boner watching some shitty seventies porn. Bucky’d been fucking around with Clint’s brand new black Ibanez RG and composing a cheesy ‘Star Trek’ space disco soundtrack with the Boss PH-3 Phase Shifter, while Clint had been trying to shove his dick around in his jeans to make his hard-on less obvious. Normal teenage crap. All good. But then Bucky had strummed a G chord and had let the pedal echo, waiting a beat before he’d blurted out, ‘Hey, fuckface. I’m horny too. All this rock god guitar playin’s got me feelin’ a Slash vibe, and you better bet that Slash gets off all the damn time  _ while _ wearing his top hat! Groupies everywhere! So, do you wanna, like, help each other out or something? Not in a gay way...just...I dunno...I’m bored, and that shit looks uncomfortable’.

Looking back, it was embarrassing how quickly Clint had agreed to play groupie, and, even though the phaser had gotten fried a long time ago, it was still shoved under the bed with everything else.

“Your face is turning purple,” Nat deadpanned. “You should probably stop strangling yourself. Also, you’re out of time. I want to go home.”

She was looking towards the big cranes hovering over Red Hook, so how she’d noticed that Clint was about to pass out was a real mystery. But he let go anyway, feeling woozy as the blood rushed back into his head and a swarm of tiny stars buzzed underneath his eyelids. Of course she wanted to go home. Why the hell would she want to spend one more second with a creep like him? You see (drum roll please), after receiving exactly three ‘not gay’ hand jobs and two ‘not gay’ blow jobs from his gay best friend (and giving five ‘not gay’ handjobs in return) Clint did something that had haunted him for years...that was still haunting him  _ right now _ ...and if Nat knew, she’d never forgive him. 

Clint might not have touched the little box since the day he’d hidden it in his drawer, but he sure as hell hadn’t gotten rid of it either...

 

  
_ “Bucky. Dude. I really don’t think you want me to cut your hair. There’s bad ideas, and then there’s really, really, really bad ideas, and this is probably the worst idea you’ve ever had. Just have your dad take you to that hipster joint in Williamsburg. You know, they can do…” Clint made some sort of hand gesture that suggested skillfully shaping the wild curls that were sticking off Bucky’s head in every direction “...whatever it is you want me to do, but the right way.” The kid hadn’t had a haircut since he’d landed in New York over two fucking years ago, and he looked straight up outta the seventies!  _

_ “I don’t wanna do all that, Clint,” Bucky whined. “That’s a chick place anyway. C’mon, just cut some of this shit off so I can see. It’s not fucking hard.” _

_ “Says the sheepdog who isn’t holding the scissors.” _

 

  
As predicted, Clint had sucked ass at cutting hair, and Bucky’d ended up looking even more like a ‘Welcome Back Kotter’ reject than when they’d started. But the worst part of the story wasn’t how much he’d fucked up Bucky’s hair. Nope. That juicy chapter came _ after  _ Bucky’d shoved a baseball hat over the mess and had trudged outside to wait for his dad to pick him up to take him to the ‘chick place’. The second he’d heard the front door click shut, Clint had sat down on the edge of his bed to stare at the discarded brown curls on the carpet, poking at them with his beat up Vans. Eventually, he’d flipped the lock on his bedroom door and had squatted down to snatch up the longest strands, looping a rubber band around the ends. 

Clint hadn’t understood what the fuck he was doing: not when he’d sat in the middle of the floor braiding the lock of Bucky’s hair, not when he’d hidden it in an old cigar box and had shoved it the back of his bottom drawer, not when he’d jerked off afterwards thinking about how soft it had felt between his fingers, and  _ definitely _ not the first time he’d tangled his fingers in Bucky’s curls for a reason that had  _ nothing _ to do with a shitty haircut. Clint had lived in his cloud of confusion, pretending that the box didn’t exist for three more months (and seven more ‘not gay’ blow jobs), before he’d stupidly kissed Bucky for the first time...

 

  
  
“Hey, dude,” Clint said all nonchalant. “Are you horny?”

Bucky’d been desperately trying to get Clint’s window unstuck for fifteen minutes. The savage winter weather had  _ finally _ broken, and, in true NYC fashion, it had jumped directly to  _ hot _ . After an unbelievable amount of grunting and swearing, the only thing Bucky had managed to accomplish was making his jeans slide down far enough that his ass crack had earned the dreaded NC-17. It was impossible for Clint to concentrate on his math homework.

“I’m always horny, duh.” Bucky gave the window one last futile yank before parkouring across the furniture to land on the end of the bed. “Why? Want me to do the  _ sucky sucky _ on your dick again?” 

“‘Sucky sucky’? Gross.” Clint flipped his pencil and hit Bucky in the stomach, nailing Harry Styles in the forehead. Sighing, he said, “Naw, that’s cool. I just got bored with this math shit.”

Bucky winked and flopped down next to Clint’s legs, totally destroying the half finished homework with his elbow. “You know, Clinty Clinty, one of these days you’re gonna have to try the  _ licky licky _ on  _ my _ lollipop. I’m sure I taste delicious.” 

Clint must have made a face, because Bucky snorted. “Good god, don’t look so freaked out, dipshit. I like your  _ handy handy _ just fine. C’mon, unzip me, I’ve already got half a chub from saying ‘sucky sucky licky licky’. Do me first, then I’ll practice that swirly thing I’ve been workin’ on. I tried it on a big popsicle the other day (grape, if you wanna get a good visual) and I got the entire thing down my throat without gagging once!”

“You’re such a perv!” Clint mumbled before tackling Bucky and getting him in a solid headlock. “Are all Russians as kinky as you?” Bucky was flailing around like crazy and his jeans slipped over his ass completely. Guess Clint wouldn’t have to bother unzipping them. 

“Lemme go, asshole. My  _ American _ dick just escaped!”

“Yeah,  _ and _ your American balls. Jesus fucking christ!” Releasing Bucky’s shaggy head, Clint had every intention of executing his usual MO: jacking Bucky off while he stared at the wall and pointedly  _ didn’t  _ think about the lock of hair; no balls, no ass, no other contact except a really hard dick in his hand for an average of five minutes. No big deal. But, for some reason, Clint chose today to blurt out, “Wanna practice our kissing skills? I’ve had my eye on that band girl, Emma, from Skinner’s fourth hour. The one with the clarinet. I’ve been thinkin’ about asking her out to see ‘Cinderella’ and jerking you off isn’t exactly bumping up the skill-set required for that situation.”

“Wow, cheesy much? ‘Cinderella’? Really?” Bucky yanked his jeans up one handed then scrunched up his nose. “You should take her to see ‘Insurgent’, ‘cause ‘Cinderella’ screams ‘trying too hard’.” Throwing his hands behind his head and cracking his neck, Bucky chuckled. “Oh, and to bring things back around to this kissing suggestion, lemme get this straight (pun intended); you wanna guarantee that you don’t swallow Miss Clarinet’s face with your mushy fish lips or french kiss her like a thirsty lizard by making out with your Bucky blow-up doll? Hmm, lemme think about it. Okay. Enough thinking. My answer is yes. My mouth is all yours for additional tongue training sessions. But, I’ve gotta give you fair warning; if TJ Campbell would stop living in denial and admit that my tongue’s been in his mouth  _ several _ times, his glowing Yelp review about my professional kissing skills would totally exceed the character limit. I’m  _ beyond _ fantastic.” Bucky licked his lips and did that stupid sex stare that he’d been practicing in  _ every _ reflective surface for months. 

“Okay, fuckface, if you’re such a master, why don’t you tell me what I should do first?”

“Oh, that’s easy. Slide your arm around flute girl while Tris is diverging all over the place, then run your fingers through her saxophone hair. Girls like that.”

“Clarinet! And how the fuck would you know?”

“Sorry, correction,” Bucky drawled. “ _ TJ  _ really liked that.”

“You kissed the guy twice!”

“Four times, actually, if kissing his cheek for a millisecond on the MOMA field trip counts.”

“It doesn’t.”

“Fine, three times then. And  _ all three times _ , he really seemed to dig it when I ran my fucking fingers through his hair. Would you just do it!? Don’t be such a chickenshit!”

Swallowing hard, Clint tried not to think about the cigar box when he gently slid his hand into the curls above Bucky’s ear. They’d grown out a few inches since Clint’s ‘haircut’; long enough for his fingers to disappear beneath them.

“Ooo, nice. That’s some high quality hair fondling you’re workin’ right there.” Bucky pressed his head into Clint’s hand and grinned. “That’s fucking perfect actually. Look, my cock’s rising to the occasion! Just think, if your magical fingers can get me hard this fast, they’re guaranteed to get your band geek’s lady bits all wet and stuff.”

Clint’s thumb froze on Bucky’s temple. “Don’t be crude.”

Cracking up, Bucky tried to nip at Clint’s wrist. “Oh,  _ now _ you’re Mr. Romance. I’ll try to remember that next time you shoot your load all over a porno mag and throw it in the corner.”

“I’m  _ serious! _ I can’t do this if you’re saying shit like that. You know what...never mind. This was a stupid idea anyway. I’ll figure it out on my own.” Clint pulled away to tape his homework back together, to sweat his ass off in the stifling heat, to mop the floors, or shove a nail in his ear...anything to avoid dealing with whatever the fuck was happening...but Bucky caught him by the wrist.

“Yo, dude. I’m sorry. C’mon, I’ll shut up like a good little trombone girl. I promise.”

The twisting feeling started below his heart again, and he kinda felt like he was gonna puke, but it didn’t stop him from leaning over and ghosting his mouth across Bucky’s, waiting until the tip of Bucky’s tongue slid over Clint’s bottom lip before bending his fingers around the curls to pull him closer. He knew it was his imagination, but he swore Bucky tasted like grape. 

And that was all it took. The second the image of a purple popsicle sliding deep down Bucky’s throat registered, Clint pushed him away. There was an old can of Pepsi on his nightstand and Clint was suddenly so thirsty that he thought he was gonna die. Sure, he knew for a fact that the can was totally empty and that he’d dropped a couple roaches in the bottom yesterday, but you better bet your sweet ass that he pretended to take a long swig anyway. “Yeah, thanks...um...I think I’ve got it. Nice job, everybody.” Clint took another non-existent drink before crunching the can in his fist.

“Agree with you the teacher does. Pass with flying colors you have. No lizards from Tatooine crossed my mind, young Padawan, thirsty or otherwise.” Bucky rolled on top of the math book and grabbed his obvious erection through his jeans. “Are you sure you don’t wanna sucky sucky my dicky dicky?”

Launching the can at the stuck window, Clint flipped Bucky off. “Yeah, I’m sure. Jesus.”

“Apologize I must, but worth a shot it was.”

  
Clint never did ask Emma out to the movies. 

  
  
  
Fuck, even now, thinking about that stupid lock of hair made Clint feel…no, fuck that, he still couldn’t think about it. No fucking way. 

Nat pulled her hat further down over her ears and slapped his hip, snapping Clint out of it (whatever ‘it’ was) enough for him to whisper, “Can I ask you a question?”

“Depends on the question.”

“Why wouldn’t you sleep next to me at Steve and Bucky’s ‘Super Friends Unite Ultimate Slumber Party’?”

He was pretty sure he knew the answer, but being a total dumbass, he still asked. 

Flipping around, Nat’s face said that she thought he was fucking stupid for asking too. “First of all, stop calling it that. Secondly, that’s an easy one. When all of us were squished on the bed eating donuts, you helped Bucky put on those stupid pink tube socks like he was a toddler. Clint, he didn’t even  _ look _ at you, but the _ instant _ you saw him struggling his ankle was in your hands so fast that I was almost embarrassed for you. And there I was, watching you flipping the heel around for him, then, like that wasn’t already bad enough, you pulled up the other sock for no fucking reason! Steve might not have caught you dressing his  _ boyfriend _ , or maybe he did for all I know, but everyone else in the room sure as hell noticed.”

Clint had no memory of doing that. None. He’d been sure Nat had gotten pissed because he’d plopped his ass in the corner next to Bucky when everyone had squished around Skinner’s computer. The second he’d realized his mistake, he’d moved next to Nat on the other side of Sam, but she’d been frosty the rest of the night. Fuck, he was getting another headache.

“When Daisy and I went downstairs to grab the pizza,” Nat started, “she asked me why I put up with it, and, suddenly, sleeping by Sam and Skinner seemed like a great idea.”

“Daisy really said that?”

“Yeah, she did.  _ And  _ Sam,  _ and _ Peggy earlier that week, and even  _ Tony _ cornered me at the salad bar a few days ago to throw in his two cents. Guess what he asked me while I was trying to go about my business putting some sunflower seeds on my spinach? It’s a good one.” She poked a finger right in the middle of Clint’s chest, just below the lock, and snarled, “He wanted to know if you and Steve were double teaming Bucky yet.” 

A horn from a barge blasted from upriver and it made Clint jump. Nat didn’t even flinch, looking at him long and steady instead. Fuck, he  _ never _ should’ve brought her here.

“Nat, I didn’t mean to…”

“No,” she snapped, cutting him off with another poke. “You’re done! I’m not freezing my ass off for one more second while you talk about yourself. I never thought you were a selfish person, Clint, but dating you has given me a whole new perspective. It’s like you just assume that I couldn’t possibly have anything better to do! Well, I do! Did you know that Bucky skipped first hour  _ again _ yesterday? Sam called me last night; that makes three times just this _ week! _ And since Kuzinski isn’t bothering to mark him absent anymore (which is bullshit),  _ I _ have to be the one to talk to my dad... _ again _ . And Steve? His head is so far up his own ass that Bucky just has to throw out one of his song and dance routines and Steve magically forgets all about Bucky showing up in a weird leather jacket, swimming like shit at the meet Thursday, and faking a stomach ache when he was supposed to go to therapy. One stupid joke and Steve is one-hundred percent distracted by Bucky’s rainbow bullshit! And my dad’s totally overwhelmed at work right now with the stupid standardized testing, and, beyond all that, I still have to sew the tail on my costume for tonight, make sure that Steve hasn’t set anything else on fire, somehow fit in a rehearsal at the studio, and, I don’t know, maybe take a nap. So, before I die of hypothermia, Clint, I’m gonna lay this out real simple for you. Suck it up, asshole, and deal with the reality of the present.”  

Nat jumped to her feet and turned her back on him. It felt real fucking familiar.

Only a complete dick would bring his girlfriend to a crumbling shipyard to have the conversation he’d been dreading. They  _ should _ be sitting in the cozy coffeehouse by the hospital drinking fucking lattes and talking this out...not arguing on a contaminated stretch of waterfront that Clint had infiltrated like a criminal! What the fuck had he been thinking!?

Jogging after her, his boots stomped across the giant words he’d scrawled all over the concrete the Saturday after the kitchen. That morning, he was supposed to have gone to the big archery tournament; he’d woken up at seven, slammed a Redbull, packed up all his gear, grabbed the ounce of weed that he had to double on resale to pay for the tournament fees, and had tried not to think about the way Bucky’d looked at him in the kitchen. But Clint hadn’t moved an inch when the Q train that would take him towards Eaton had pulled up. Nope. He’d watched the doors slide open and closed, then had run off to his secret lair to scratch letters on the ground with rocks. 

 

1\. Asshole: a stupid, annoying or detestable person.

_ “Clint is an asshole for selfishly calling his best friend ‘baby’ when he was in obvious distress.” _

 

2\. Fuck-up: a person who ruins or spoils, especially through stupidity or carelessness.

_ “Clint is a fuck-up because he skipped the tournament and destroyed his state and national rankings, dropping the Eaton team down to second overall.” _

 

3\. Loser: a person who is destined to fail.

_ “Clint is a loser because he’d had a chance with two amazing people, and he’d failed them both.” _

 

4\. Goddammit: a word used to express annoyance, anger etc. Often considered offensive by Christians.

_ “Even if Clint screamed ‘goddammit’ at the top of his lungs for an hour, offending every Christian within a two mile radius, he still wouldn’t know how to fix anything.” _

 

5\. Mother Fucker: a despicable or very unpleasant person or thing.

_ “Clint is a mother fucker who should have his balls cut off.” _

 

6\. Fucking Fuck: an expression of anger, often used when a person is so angry that they can’t think of anything else to say.

_ “Clint says ‘fucking fuck’ all the time because…   Fucking Fuck!” _

 

7\. Fucked-up: thoroughly confused, disordered, or damaged.

_ “Clint is too fucked-up to be with anyone.” _

  
“Nat! Wait!” he begged when he got close enough to grab the back of her coat. “Just wait…”

Rounding on him, she aggressively pointed down at the word ‘loser’. “What the fuck is this!? When did you write all these words?”

“Um...I don’t see why it matters...but is was the Saturday after Steve got beat up.”

“What!?” Nat crowded into his space, and the anger pouring off her was thick enough that Clint stumbled backwards. “That was the day of the tournament!” she yelled. “You told me you didn’t go because you were sick!”

“Yeah. I lied.” Chewing at the dry skin on his lips, he bit off a piece off with his teeth before snapping, “I lied to everybody.” 

“Why would you do that!? You said the team was counting on you to keep up the rankings! Because of that new kid.”

Clint snorted, because that was so spot on. “Oh, you mean the new kid whose name is now sittin’ pretty in the number one spot in the state? That’s where my name used to be, you know. Are you talking about the new kid who helped those fuckers from Dalton take Eaton’s top ranking in the state?  _ That _ new kid?”

“Don’t snap at me, Clint! It’s not my fucking fault you…”

“Listen,” he interrupted, “my coach already bitched me out, or, to put it more accurately, he’s been on my back for three weeks about getting my head back in the game, getting my lazy ass to practice, and, to quote, ‘to stop acting like an irresponsible asshole’. The best part is that I’m on probation. Guess what that means?”

“I’m sure you’re gonna tell me.”

“Nice, Nat. Real fuckin’ nice.” He was so pissed that he could feel the hairs standing up on the back of his neck. “It means I have to fix this mess at the Thanksgiving tournament or they’re pulling my scholarship. Your dad already put me on notice, said there’s ‘nothing he can do’. No more high-end education for me, sweetheart. My punk ass is headed for the metal detectors and overcrowded classrooms of the Brooklyn High School of the Arts.”  

She stared at him, her pink lips hanging open in a way that made Clint feel about two feet tall. “What could you possibly have done  _ here _ that was more important than your scholarship!?”

Right before his eyes, Nat had crossed way past angry and into an emotion that Clint had never seen on her, but her rage wasn’t enough to make him shut his fucking mouth. 

“Well, first, I spent a few hours lying spread eagle in the middle of those weeds over there.” Clint pointed to a particularly hearty patch of spiky green things. “I stared up at clouds and fucked up an entire zip rolling blunts and trying to blow smoke rings as good as your brother.”

“Are you kidding me right now!?” 

“No. Your baby bro’s a smoke ring superstar.”

“Wow, you might not blow smoke as good as he can, but you’re certainly his equal in the smartass department. You sound just like him!” Spreading out her arms, Nat started walking backwards, but not before she screamed, “Go fuck yourself, Clint!”

“What, you don’t wanna hear the rest!? You’re gonna miss the best part! After I’d smoked all three-hundred-fifty dollars worth of hydro, I spent some quality time thinking about shoving a big coney dog slathered with chili, onions, and mustard in my face while viciously berating myself on the concrete. And, I don’t wanna leave you out, so tell me, Nat, anything you think I should add to my masterpiece?” 

“How about ‘predictable’?”

“Really? ‘Predictable’? That’s all you’ve got? I bet you can’t guess my final act of rebellion!” Clint pushed the hood off his head and growled, “I stood on the end of that pier and fired every last one of my arrows into the river! And I don’t have any money to replace them!” Slapping his knees like it was the funniest thing in the world, Clint scoffed, ‘Predictable’, my ass!”

“You’re right. I’m sorry” Nat replied, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “How about you pick up a rock and write ‘dumbass’ instead.”

 

8\. Dumbass: A person marked by stupidity or foolishness.

_ “Clint is a dumbass for smoking three-hundred-fifty dollars of primo weed and shooting over two-hundred dollars worth of arrows into the goddamn East River!” _

 

“Yeah, I am a dumbass, because after blowing off archery to partake in so many intelligent and meaningful activities I still didn’t know what the fuck I was doing!”

“Doing about what!? I don’t even know what you’re talking about anymore!” 

Clint glanced back at the stupid tower, and Dr. Manhattan gave him a sympathetic wave. “I’m talking about…”

“Yourself!” she interrupted, making another flock of seagulls explode off the seawall (and not the fun eighties variety). “I think that’s the word you’re searching for. You’re talking about  _ yourself  _ and have been for forty-five minutes!”

Dr. Manhattan facepalmed, and Clint squeezed his eyes shut because...fucking fuck!!! So many emotions were pouring off Nat in that moment: pissed, mad, furious, frustrated...Nat was all of those things...but, even with fire exploding from her eyes, Clint  _ loved _ her. That much he  _ did _ know. But it wasn’t enough...it just wasn’t.

In the three weeks since ‘Babygate’, Clint hadn’t figured out a damn thing. Was he Steve’s biggest fan, or did he wanna shove the guy off a cliff? Was he...shit...even thinking it made his heart do the twisty thing...was he in love with Bucky, or in love with the  _ idea _ of being in love with Bucky? He groaned, knowing damn well that Nat was staring at him, but dammit, he needed a minute because he still didn’t have a fucking clue if he was straight or... _ not  _ straight. Maybe he was just a jealous asshole who didn’t wanna share his favorite toy? 

Trying to push down his defenses, Clint blew out a long breath and muttered, “I think I’m like a bratty five-year-old standing in the middle of the playroom and fighting with another kid over a stuffed doll. I’m kicking and spitting at this poor little guy, trying to rip the thing out of his hands, and then, when I win and he’s crying in the corner, I stare at the doll and realize that I didn’t really wanna play with it...I just didn’t want the other kid to have it.”

“My brother’s not a toy.”

“It’s an analogy…”

“Honestly, I don’t think it is,  _ Clint _ ,” she hissed, stepping further away and landing on ‘Fucking Fuck!’ “Oh, and by the way, it’s nice that I was included in that very informative ‘analogy’. You sure know how to make a girl feel special.”

“Natasha, please.” Clint instantly regretted using her full name. It felt strange rolling off his tongue; unfamiliar, disconnected, and just plain wrong.

Her only response was to chuckle under her breath, and Clint regretted  _ everything. _ Tears welled up in her eyes as she nodded her head;  the Brooklyn Bridge rising in the distance behind her. Clint felt like a real dick for thinking she looked beautiful.  God, if nothing else, drawing his bow and firing his arrows at nothing had shown Clint how lost he’d become.  H e didn’t deserve someone like her...he didn’t deserve  _ either _ of them.

“Nat, I’m so sorry.”

She laughed outright. 

“Nat, I…”

“Why’d you bring me here, Clint?” she snapped, cutting him off completely. “Did the Great Director need his grand gesture? You just couldn’t stop yourself from plugging me into your idea of a perfect movie location to spit out all the words you  _ haven’t _ been saying since the day I let you buy me that strawberry milkshake? Is that it!?”

“What?” Quickly gazing at the bridge in the background, he wanted to kick himself. “No. Jesus, no, that’s not it at all!”

“Then why!? Why’d I have to crawl through a maze of trash for you to talk to me!?”

“Because Bucky’s never been here!” Clint screamed. “Okay!? He doesn’t even know this place exists. I can’t explain it, but I’ve just always kept this  _ one thing _ for myself, and it might look like trash to you but it’s special to me! And  _ you’re _ special to me!” He felt dizzy and he was pretty sure he was about to pass out. “I’ve been trying to figure out how to do this with some shred of decency, and this was the only place I could think of that wasn’t dripping with whatever the fuck Bucky and I were before Steve...before  _ you _ !” 

She clapped her hands slowly and glared at him hard enough that Clint stumbled backwards over a chunk of concrete. “Good job, buddy. That was the closest you’ve ever come. You actually said his name that time.”

A stiff breeze blew off the water, making Nat’s cheeks turn even pinker...like a strawberry...and Clint’s heart hurt just looking at her. She  _ was _ beautiful. He couldn’t stop himself from thinking it because she just  _ was _ . The way her red hair was peeking out from underneath her cream winter hat as her endless slow clap echoed…dammit! She  _ did _ look perfect standing in front of the mother fucking bridge! 

“I wasn’t trying to make a spectacle, Nat. I just wanted to bring you someplace where it could be just the two of us.” Clint shoved the escaping pieces of blue hair off his face, groaning, “It sounds stupid when I say it out loud.”

“Especially since it’s a fantasy,” she snapped. “Even in the absence of something you can feel its presence, sometimes more so from the effort of exclusion.”

“I have no idea what you just said.”

“Someday you’ll grow up to be a big boy and figure it out.” 

Wow. Nat could be harsh, brutally honest, but she was rarely  _ mean _ . But that? Well, that sounded like Bucky when he was in one of his ‘total prick’ moods. Suddenly, his legs felt like jello and the stars were back (despite the lack of strangulation), and Clint had the overwhelming urge to run. 

Instead, he yanked the rest of his hair out of the rubber band and let it all fly into his face. “Go ahead, Nat, be as mean as you want, I deserve it. But that day with the lawyers, while you and your dad were helping Steve, Bucky thought my hair was  _ spying _ on him; that there were fucking  _ eyes _ in it! I told your dad enough, but I didn’t tell him that! I fucked up. All I’ve been doing is fucking up! I mean, look at us! Why did I do this to us!?” He grabbed at the strands and pulled, screaming, “I’ve been  _ trying _ to figure it out, Nat! I’m fucking trying! It’s not my fault I’m too stupid to deal with this shit!”

“Jesus, Clint. Let go.” 

Her hands were suddenly untangling his fingers, and feeling the soft cotton gently touching the blue strands pushed Clint over the edge. He flashed back to the day she’d stood naked behind him in the mirror, rubbing his blue hair with a towel...dammit...big ugly tears poured down his face as he tried to bat her away. 

“Clint, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that. You’re  _ trying _ , I know you’re always trying…”

“Trying to understand English?” Clint laughed and ran a hand across his snotty nose. The tears wouldn’t fucking stop. 

“Nobody understands me when I’m being a pompous ass, except Steve, and that’s because he’s a pompous ass too.” She took off her gloves and sighed, stilling him enough to wipe at the corners of his eyes, snot and all. “I meant that Bucky’s always on your mind. It’s that simple. When you decided to bring me here, Bucky was a big factor in your choice, so, even though he’s never set foot anywhere near this place, he’s  _ still here _ . He’s  _ everywhere _ you go, Clint. I knew that going in. I’m not an idiot.”

He couldn’t stop himself from bending forward and touching their foreheads together. “But you wanted to be with me? Why? Why would you…”

“ _ Because, _ ” she interrupted, “I’m an idiot.” 

Looping her hands around the back of his neck, Nat let them rest there as another tourist boat motored past on its way towards the bridge. He wondered if anyone was snapping pictures of their ending.  

“We can’t do this anymore, Nat. I just...it’s wrong.”

“I know…”

“I’m not stupid enough to think that I’m making you happy.” 

“Oh my god. Suddenly this is about  _ my _ happiness?” Nat dropped her hands and shook her head. “I’m glad you finally told me,” she scoffed, “without really admitting anything.”

“Nat, c’mon… you know something’s really wrong. Not just with us, but with Bucky. I need to step back…”

“I just want you to say it out loud,” she interrupted. “Then we can talk about my  _ brother’s _ problems. Grow some fucking balls and say it out loud.” 

“Baby, please.” 

Fuck. Clint stopped, because he’d been so goddamn careful not to say that word. ‘Sweetheart’, ‘honey’, ‘strawberry’...but not ‘ _ baby’ _ . He’d promised himself that he’d never call  _ anyone _ ‘baby’ ever again...

“I’m not your ‘baby’ anymore.” She backed up again as his hair blew into his face. He didn’t even bother to swipe it out of the fucking snot. “And I’m okay with that, Clint, I really am, but you need to admit why it’s over. I deserve that much.”

“I don’t know, Nat. I’m confused…”

“That’s not good enough.”

“I need to take a step back and figure myself out…”

“Yeah, you already said that. God, you’re so good at dancing around your own feelings that you can’t even say one simple thing. Unbelievable.”

“I don’t know what I’m doing, and I…”

“Stop! Just  _ stop  _ it. Do you even hear yourself? The double talk you’re spouting at me? I was starting to feel bad for you, but c’mon! Enough is enough! Stop  _ lying _ to yourself!”

“I can’t.”

“Yes you can! It’s nothing that I don’t already know! I’ve known since the day I accidentally saw Bucky sucking your dick in tenth grade! You’ve always tried to play it off, to act ‘aloof’ or whatever the hell you were going for, but nobody, and I mean  _ nobody _ , is that good of a liar. The only people you’ve been fooling are yourself and the idiot who’s playing with your toy!”

Suddenly, Clint felt hot, like the switch had been flipped on some internal furnace and he had to get it off! Unzipping his leather jacket, he flung it as hard as he could across the concrete and stood there, more exposed than he’d ever been, wearing Bucky’s ‘Guns N Roses’ hoodie. 

“You wanna hear the truth!? Well, let’s go then! Look at this shit!” He pounded his fists in the center of the rose covered circle on his chest where the two guns intertwined. “I’ve turned into a psycho stalker who steals Bucky’s clothes then casually throws them on to break up with his sister! You claim you already know everything? Did you know that every second since I told Bucky he was never anything more than a casual jerk-off buddy, I’ve wondered what would have happened if I’d let myself kiss him like I’d wanted to! Did you know that I was secretly happy when Rollins took that picture of him making out with TJ? Did you!? Listening to Bucky talking about TJ’s ‘pretty’ hazel eyes and his stupid fucking freckles really pissed me off! Oh, and I bet you didn’t know that I lied through my teeth about that whole fucked up mess in Tribeca! Not only did I  _ mean _ to fall asleep naked with your brother...the night after  _ you and I _ had sex for the first time, mind you...but I wished I’d been the one fucking him hard enough to make his moans travel through the vents! How do you feel about that one? Huh!?” 

He was gonna have a fucking heart attack. Every inch of Clint’s body was vibrating and going numb, but there was no way he could stop now. “Brace yourself, Nat, this is a good one. I’ve had a lock of Bucky’s  _ hair _ stashed in my room for three  _ years _ because I’m a fucked up chicken shit! Is that creepy enough for you? ‘Cause there’s more. I can keep right on going. I’m a liar, I’m fucking toxic, and I  _ don’t _ know what the hell I’m doing! Not even a little bit! I meant it when I said I have to take a break from this...from  _ all _ of this...and it’s not because I don’t love you and don’t want to be with you, because I  _ do _ ! I love you like crazy, and I want nothing more than to scoop you up in my arms right now and hold you until there’s nothing left but us, but I can’t get him off of me!” 

Not even bothering with the zipper, Clint grabbed the bottom of the hoodie and ripped it over his head, accidentally stripping off his ratty ‘Misfits’ tank top too. “Don’t you see!?” he yelled, pounding his naked chest hard enough to hurt. “Bucky’s  _ always _ in here, and I don’t wanna feel like this anymore!” 

Standing there half naked, the cold air stinging every exposed pore, Clint had never felt so broken. He longed for the simplicity of the musty YMCA, dust particles floating through the rays of sunshine that were strong enough to penetrate the dirty windows and a wild Russian kid spouting nonsense as he dove into the water like a revelation. But life isn’t like a movie, you can’t push rewind to relive the best moments, or skip ahead to avoid the pain, and once the credits roll, it’s just over. The frigid air stung like a bitch, but, as he squared his shoulders, Clint relished it; like he’d ripped off a dirty band-aid to finally expose the fresh skin underneath. 

When Nat carefully slid his leather jacket back over his shoulders, zipping him up before she wrapped her arms around his waist and squeezed like a purple octopus, Clint wondered if he’d ever find the key, and, if he did, if he was beyond fixing. 

“I’ve gotta say,” she chuckled, “that was something I’d pay good money to see in theaters.”

“What?” Clint pulled back to look her in the eyes, and, he might be nuts, but he was pretty sure they were filled with something like relief. 

“The leading man stands half naked in the middle of a dilapidated shipyard, chest heaving, hair flying in the wind with a giant crane rising behind him.” She duplicated his finger frame and snickered. “God, you’re such a drama queen.” 

And Clint laughed, he couldn’t help it. He laughed at how cold the steel rings still felt inside his nipples. He laughed because Nat was right, this  _ was _ the perfect location for a dramatic break-up scene. He laughed because he  _ was _ a fucking drama queen. He laughed because she was laughing too. He laughed because, broken or not, he felt free.

They stood there like that for a long time, arms intertwined as the tourist boats made their endless loops, and, somehow, it felt like an ending  _ and _ a beginning. 

“Clint,” she finally whispered, letting her fingers dance in a slow circle over his spine. “Can I ask you one more question?”

Blowing out a long breath, Clint wished that he was as strong as the tower rising on the other side of the river. “Depends on the question.”

Suddenly, her hands were bracketing his cheeks, her eyes searching for something he already knew she wasn’t going to find. “Why can’t you let yourself love him?”

He whistled, because that, right there, was the million dollar question. “If I knew that, we wouldn’t be freezing our asses off in a cesspool of nuclear waste.” Sniffing, he kissed the top of her head, right next to the fuzzy ball, then wrapped his hand around the lock hanging from his neck. “I wish I knew the answer.”

Resting her hand over his, she scrunched up her face for a long minute before she started digging around in the pocket of her jeans. “Do you want me to take that off?”

“What?” It took him a second to figure out she meant the lock. “I don’t have a key.”

“That’s not what I asked.” She quirked up the corner of her mouth and held up a bobby pin in front of his nose. It’s a little skill that I picked up at the orphanage, very helpful for stealing extra blankets. Anyway, I want you to know that this isn’t all your fault. It’s mine too. I was the one who wrapped my lips around that strawberry straw and took a risk, because that’s what falling in love is all about: kissing the frog, stepping into the pumpkin carriage, making friends with some rude guy’s reindeer...but I never should have let it get this far.”

“Then why did you?”

She tapped the silver chain. “First, am I doing this or not?”

 

  
_ “Dude, this is so sweet! I’m gonna look just like Sid Vicious!” Clint threw the box at the tree and held the silver lock and chain up in the air. The Christmas lights reflected on the metal as Bucky started singing “My Way” with Johnny Rotten’s full gutter punk accent.  _

_ “Hand it over, fuckface. Lemme unlock it so I can put it on you! Gimme! Gimme! Gimme!”  _

_ Bucky slid the tiny key into the lock and popped it open before hopping on the couch behind him. “I almost killed you with the safety pins, which, by the way, was punk rock as hell, but I knew you’d love this even more. God save the Queen, Anarchy in the UK, and all that shit.” _

_ The chain was flung around Clint’s neck and, before he knew what was happening, Bucky’d reached over his shoulders to click the lock shut.  _

_ “There!” Bucky exclaimed, planting a kiss on Clint’s cheek. “This one won’t make you bleed!” _

 

  
If Clint could direct this moment, he’d switch the film to black and white as he captured himself slowly nodding at Nat, then have her push off his jacket before zooming in on his naked chest as she slid the bobby pin into the lock. In a nod to Spielberg, the color red would invade the screen and become the focal point as trails of blood dripped down Clint’s naked body from every silver link; their smooth edges ripping more holes than the sharp points of the safety pins ever had. He tried to hold it together in slow motion as Nat’s delicate fingers maneuvered to try and find the sweet spot.

“The reason I allowed us to reach this place,” she started, “was because sometimes you hold onto things even when they’re bad for you. Hope is a wonderful thing.” Nodding towards Manhattan, she twisted her wrist in a different direction. “That’s why I love that tower. Every foot represents survival, bravery, hope, dedication, and faith. It’s the same reason why I’ll always squeeze into a corseted yellow ball gown and dance with the candles and teacups. When I’m dancing, I don’t stop when my feet start bleeding and my muscles cramp so bad that I can barely stand. I keep going because the pain means I’m that much closer to accomplishing something glorious. I  _ want _ to be the one to put on beautiful costumes sewn from silk and tulle, powder my face in a mirror made of lights, and spin and leap across the stage to the roar of the crowd. The joy of the standing ovation makes the pain worth it, but every dance can’t end with roses and cheers. If it did, what would we have to dream about?” 

She unzipped his jacket a little more before continuing. “You’re an amazing person, Clint, and I took a chance with you because I thought you were worth it. I know you don’t believe that about yourself right now, but it’s true.”

“But I…”

“Shhh.” She stuck a finger across his lips and chuckled. “Shut up. We both know I’m always right about everything.”

“Something’s really wrong with Bucky, isn’t it?”

“Yes, it is.”

“And Steve?”

There was heaviness in Nat’s words as she answered. “He means well.”

“But?”

“He’s wearing rose colored glasses, and Bucky’s a skilled actor. Always has been.” She dropped her hands and stuck them in her pockets.

Clint didn’t want to say what he was thinking, but he had to. “It’s drugs.”

“I know.”

“And I think something really bad happened with Brock. Something more than they’re telling us.” 

Nodding, she said, “I know that too.” 

Clint ran his hands over his face, dragging them over his cheeks and down to his neck…and...holy shit...it was gone!

When Clint snapped his eyes open in shock, Nat was tipping her head to the side while gently patting the pocket of her plaid coat. He opened his mouth to say something, but nothing came out. He hadn’t even realized that she’d picked the lock! He hadn’t felt her pull off the chain. It was just...gone.

“I know what I have to do,” she said quietly, “but I don’t want to do it.”

It was like his brain needed to reboot. Clint heard her talking...she needed him to listen.

“You should‘ve seen how excited Bucky was when his costume got delivered last night. I wish you could’ve seen my dad’s face when Bucky pulled the gold boots out of the box. It was priceless.” She was smiling but there were tears sliding down her cheeks. “I mean, there’s no going back from a sequined jumpsuit with ten inch platform heels...not that my dad would ever want Bucky to hide who he is.”

“Nat…”

“Bucky teetered around like an idiot for over an hour; knocking pictures off the walls, tripping over Steve, bashing his head on the kitchen archway, but he was so happy!” She let out a strangled sob, and Clint reached out to catch her. “He almost seemed like himself…”

“Then let him have tonight. Okay?” Clint put his hands on her shoulders and squeezed. “Give Bucky his moment of ivory and gold, then confront him tomorrow, ask him point blank what he’s been taking and where he’s been getting it, pull Steve aside and knock some sense into him, tell your dad that something must’ve happened with Brock...whatever you think is right.”

The curtain dropped to silence as the ballerina stood alone in the middle of the stage. 

“How the hell am I supposed to look Bucky in the eye while I use lipstick and glitter to transform him into everything he’s ever dreamed about,  _ knowing _ that I’m going to shatter him into a thousand pieces tomorrow!? I can’t...Clint...I can’t do that to him...”

“Nat,” Clint soothed, squeezing her that much tighter as his own wounds closed. “You’re the strongest person I know, and you can play make-believe for one more night. Put on your pretty black dress and your cute kitty ears, paint your lips bright red and powder your face, then push back the red velvet curtain and put on the performance of a lifetime. Give Bucky his moment in the spotlight, something special to remember before everything comes crashing down. You’re strong enough to give that to him, Nat. I know you are.”

*****

 

  
Bucky was fucking pumped! Big bounce house pumped! Like he’d transformed into a big blow up castle at some little girl’s fifth birthday party, and he was overflowing with excitement and air as all of his friends jumped up and down on his blown up body and rammed into his big turrets! Snort! Skinner wildly somersaulting into the corner and getting stuck underneath Tiny Parker and Clumsy Lang!? Yes! Natasha and Daisy holding hands and leaping up and down in polka dotted socks like Disney Princesses (that was fucking sexist, but it was the first thing that popped into his brain, so he was rolling with it)!? Girl Power! Tony and Banner using quadrilateral equations and science stuff to jump in exactly the right place to knock Sam, Frank, and Ezra on their assess!? Stephen Hawking Yes! Fuck it, Bucky’d even invite Steve’s ex-girlfriend posse to bounce up and down on his bounce house bellybutton (not his turret though)! Why the hell not? Peggy Posh Spice and her perfectly painted red toes slamming full force into Clint’s stomach would be fucking spectacular! Oh, and then Sharon could jump off the top rope and get Clint into a figure four leg lock like she was Ric Flair! Woo! That right there would be some  _ boss ass  _ WrestleMania shit! Two spurned hot chicks taking out their aggression on the punk rock tough guy with the stupid fucking hair? Bucky’d gladly ‘borrow’ his dad’s Visa and pay $69.99 to see that match in HD on pay-per-view! 

Bucky backed up against his bedroom door and bounced up and down on his toes. He’d thrown on some M.I.A., and she was singin’ his song, like, literally. The actual title was ‘Bucky Done Gun’...scouts honor...and every time the horn and conga part kicked in, Bucky had to fucking shimmy like crazy. Steve was missing out...oh shit...he forgot Steve! How could Bucky forget his sexy, studly, yummy, beast of a boyfriend!? Stevie was the best part of the mother fucking party! In this Bucky Bounce House scenario, Steve would definitely be busting out some seriously impressive parkour moves and making it look like ‘acrobatic bounce house interpretive dancing’ was gonna be his major. Screw swimming! Bucky almost choked on his spit at that one, because it really fucking  _ should _ be! 

Running full force at his bed, Bucky used both hands to launch his unicorn onesie wearin’ ass into a dive roll and totally misjudged, slamming his bare feet against the far wall. The vibration made his Carl bobblehead fall off the shelf and land like a dead zombie on Steve’s keyboard, which would  _ never _ happen on the show. #carlforever

“Bucky! Oh my god. You’re literally bouncing off the walls!” Steve stopped typing long enough to carefully set one-eyed Carl next to sexy Jared Leto Joker, then gave Bucky the two-eyed stank eye...which, technically, would be ‘stank eyes’...whatever.

“Yeah,  _ I am, _ Stevie! Which makes sense since we’re on the verge of attending the party of the fucking century! It’s Saturday night on the almost eve of Halloween, Saturday Night Live, Saturday Night Fever, Saturday evening special, and Tony’s party is to commence at nine o’clock sharp, according to our handmade invitation!”

Bucky shook his head in disappointment at the nerd in the pink chair; the one who was fully ignoring him to type and type and type...and fucking type some more. It was stupid.

Last week, the invite had arrived addressed to ‘Mr. and Mr. Gay as F#*& co/ Phil Barnes’, along with a Ouija Board wrapped in pentagram paper. While hilarious, that shit had been fucking creepy... _ cool  _ creepy...but still creepy. In all honesty, the demonic board game for children had freaked Steve out a little, and Bucky  _ a lot _ , so he’d tucked it under his arm with his math book at school the next day to pawn it off on Skinner during math...for  _ science _ . But Skinner’d just rolled his Buddy Holly eyes, declared that he’d gotten a Ouija Board of his very own, and had flat out rejected Bucky’s paranormal gateway to the other side. And when Bucky had started whining about it (loudly), Mrs. Craft...who was sadly  _ not _ featured in the excellent teenage witch movie ‘The Craft’...had tossed it into the garbage by the door. Then POOF, a demon had busted through that garbage can portal and had possessed Mrs. Craft for  _ sure _ , because she’d given the class a pop quiz  _ every fucking day _ since! But seriously, Bucky didn’t need to add  _ actual _ demons to the nasty imaginary demons who were already gettin’ crunk slamming pudding shots and playing strip poker inside his fucked up brain. Thanks, but no thanks, Tony Stark. 

Anyway, it was almost time to party in the USA and ‘costumes that don’t suck’ were mandatory. Bucky liked things that were mandatory, he and Tony were bros like that...oh shit...horn and conga part! Shimmy break! Bucky wiggled his butt and his shoulders in opposite directions and did the best flat on his back shimmy he could muster. It was pretty fucking awesome, if he said so himself.

Anyway,  _ anyway _ , Bucky loved a good costume! _ Loved it! _ And he was so damn excited to dress up like Jonathan Rhys Meyer/Brian Slade/David Bowie that he legit had a hard-on. Correction: he’d had a power boner since he’d woken up that morning, even  _ after  _ Steve had fucked him fast and deep in the shower until Bucky’d blown his load all over the space unicorns! And somebody call Guinness because after Steve had pulled Bucky’s hair backwards and jerked him off until he came a second time, his dick was still ready for action. Two orgasms before the water had even  _ thought _ about running cold? That Double O Bonus Round had been directly related to Steve healing up enough to resume his obnoxious (but appreciated) workout schedule! While Bucky’d admittedly loved blowing raspberries all over Steve’s tiny love belly, his cock fully approved of Steve’s new high protein, healthy carb, six-day-a-week workout regime. Shimmy break!

If you add two abs to a six pack to equal eight, Bucky will come twice in rapid succession. It was basic math. But that was way fucking off topic. The topic was ‘costumes that don’t suck’, and before they could slide into the best couples costume the world had ever seen, Bucky had to get his Ewan McGregor/Curt Wild/Mick Jagger/Lou Reed off the mother fucking computer!

“I’m not entirely sure why you’re sitting there like a total Geekasaurus Rex.” Bucky kicked his feet up in the air for emphasis. They had iridescent hooves? Were these things hooves? Huh. “This is gonna be the party to trump all parties, and, for once, I’m not slinking into a lion’s den that’s packed full of drunk mobster babies bent on my queer destruction. You  _ do _ realize this is the first party where my name’s at the top of the guest list, right? I’m not some afterthought on Tony Stark’s pity list, I’m a  _ desired _ participant. Me and my Misfit Crüe can sashay right up to the doorman in our pink zebra banana hammocks, proudly present our ID’s, and waltz into the spotlight singing ‘Shout at the Devil’.”

“Bucky, you’re seventeen.”

“My point exactly!”

Steve squished up his cute little face, which was  _ almost _ back to normal skin color, then gave Bucky a cute little smile. And there it was...that familiar fizz in his unicorn belly. Or maybe it was the pound of bacon and gallon of orange juice that he’d eaten for breakfast coming back to haunt him after all the bounce house analogies? 

“You’re so ridiculous, which is what I love about you...please never stop...but I’ve gotta get this done today. Can you change the song? You’ve had it on repeat for fifteen minutes.” 

Bucky resumed his shimmy...because horns and congas!

“Baby, I have to turn this paper in on Monday, and I have a sneaking suspicion that I’m not going to be in any condition for quality creative writing tomorrow.”

“So, you’re being responsible  _ now _ because you know you’re gonna be completely irresponsible and get super fucked up  _ tonight? _ ”

Steve shrugged his shoulders and started typing again. “Pretty much.”

Bucky rolled onto his fuzzy belly and crawled toward the stereo to switch the song. Giving one last shimmy for good measure, he scrolled down to ‘Placebo’ in high speed and clicked ‘Nancy Boy’ with a flourish, making damn sure he hit repeat before cranking it up to eleven. Brian Molko was a queer god for writing the line ‘alcoholic kinda mood, lose my clothes, lose my lube’, and Bucky really wanted to do a little role reversal with his cute little ass. Fuck...Bucky was really starting to feel the buzz.

See, this was why Steve was the more responsible half in this relationship; he pre-planned his partying for optimal educational success. Bucky on the other hand, well, he certainly hadn’t popped those Adderalls along with his daily dose of Vitamin C to pull up his pathetic invierno tortuga la jugar grade. No, sir, Bucky’d swallowed down those little helpers to make sure his brain didn’t drift off to La La Land, or wherever the fuck it had been traveling for its long weekends lately. One bottle of Tic Tacs (labeled with a sharpie arrow pointing up) to keep his brain in his room with Steve and another (sportin’ the down arrow) to make the boogie man go away. Bucky almost had it down to a science, if self-medicating was a science. He couldn’t exactly confirm with smarty pants Skinner, or smarty pants Banner, or smarty pants Parker...or even fellow wastoid Tony...no, Bucky’d gotten this Pharmaceutical Grant on his very own...well, with a little help from a brother in arms.

_ Whatever. _ This train of thought was deflating his bouncy castle, or, in true grunge fashion, ‘harshing his buzz’. Bounding across the bed on all fours, Bucky emitted a very realistic horse whinny. ‘Shimmy’ kinda rhymed with ‘whinny’. Did unicorns sound like horses, but more magical? Bucky didn’t know how to make his whinny more magical, so he head butted Steve in the shoulder instead. 

Steve let out a big belly laugh as he tried to avoid Bucky’s magical horn (the one on his head, dirty birdies). “I’m almost done! Stop being so incorrigible!”

“I don’t know what that word means, but if it means, ‘I’m going to fuck you now’, you can say it as many times as you’d like.”

“It means, I’m going to tie you up again and tease you until your dick hurts from everything I’m  _ not  _ doing to it.”

“Oh.”

“Oh?”

“We’ve never done that before.”

“No, we haven’t.” Steve let a slow smile spread across his face, and Bucky was hit with the sudden desire to be the most incorrigible naughty unicorn in the magical stable. 

Last week, they’d busted out his dad’s power tools after they’d made a scandalous trip to the hardware store to buy four metal loops that were apparently made for tying up boats. Bucky’d felt a teeny tiny bit bad for the bewildered old man in the red vest when Steve had asked how to attach them to the wall so they wouldn’t pull out with a lot of pressure. When the poor dude had replied, ‘How much pressure?’, Bucky had helpfully flexed his biceps and winked. They’d ended up with a stud finder, extra long locking screws, and one free judgemental look while old dude had been brown bagging their bondage gear. It had been their first (very successful) DIY home improvement project as a couple. 

“Buck, you okay, sweetheart? We don’t have to try that if you don’t want to, I’m sorry, we should have talked about that before I said it like that…”

“Hell yeah, I wanna try that!” Bucky flipped himself around so his legs were hanging off the bed and his chin was resting on Steve’s shoulder. “I was just thinking about how good it felt when you fucked me nice and slow the first time you tied me up.” Bucky licked the skin on Steve’s neck all the way up to his earlobe. “You remember, after you’d teased me with our new purple dildo, sliding it in and out...”

“Okay, now we’re both getting really off track,” Steve mumbled as he slowly slid a finger into Bucky’s mouth. “And your dad and Natasha are home…”

Bucky sucked and swirled his tongue around the end of Steve’s finger like  _ nobody _ was home...he sucked on it like Jake Bass does when he’s wrapping his lips around some huge Cocky Boy cock…

Suddenly, Steve’s phone dinged on the desk, loudly, and he pulled his finger out to grab for it. Stupid fucking phone!

He held it up for Bucky to read the screen, like he fucking cared, jesus, cock blocked by a fucking text! 

 

_ Daisy: Why r u ignoring my texts? I need to talk 2 u asap. _

 

Steve sighed, and Bucky sighed, both of them staring longingly at the boat ring peeking out from behind it’s throw pillow disguise.

“She’s been bugging me since yesterday.”

“Well, why are you being an antisocial turd?”

Steve rolled his eyes and started typing. 

 

_ Steve: Sorry. I’ve been slammed with schoolwork. Let’s talk at Tony’s party tonight. _

 

As Steve muted the phone and flipped it upside-down next to the laptop, Bucky’s brain did the ‘holy shit, I almost forgot’ thing. He had to give Steve his present! His  _ Halloween _ present...not that that was a thing...but Bucky and Daisy had worked their asses off to finish it during art, then he’d gotten way too nervous to give it to Steve last night, then he’d swallowed a big white Tic Tac before bed and had forgotten all about it...so now was the time! Now or never. Boom shak-a-lak-a. Ka-Pow. Bucky needed lots of Batman sound effects for this gift giving presentation because he was the best boyfriend ever. Like ever, ever! Forever, ever? Ever ever? Yes, Andre 3000, ‘Forever, ever’.

Twisting away from Steve, Bucky did a quarterback pivot towards his dresser where he’d stashed the surprisingly well wrapped gift under his neatly folded T-shirts. Turns out, Steve folded clothes like he was the top minimum wage worker at Express, so that was his new job in the laundry assembly line. Can’t turn shit pink if you’re just folding it. Pushing back his Knife Party shirt, Bucky grabbed hold of the rectangle and excitedly turned back to find Steve...fucking typing again!

Steve looked so studious sitting at the newly cleaned off desk. He’d also been hired as household organizer. Swear to god, he'd color coded everyone’s closets using some sort of artistic color wheel that had even confused Natasha. But it was really fucking easy to pick out a perfectly coordinated outfit, not that Bucky coordinated, but anyway, there he was, Mr. Organized, working on homework on a  _ fucking Saturday _ because teachers were dicks. Once Steve had finally gone back to school on Monday, the educational sadists had licked their lips and laid it on thick. 

The official White House cover story was as follows: Steve had been in a car accident (sort of true), and, since he was now the proud owner of a loving and supportive boyfriend, he’d made the decision to stay with the Barnes family to heal and recover, because the wonderful Mr. Pierce was always out of town on business. The Barnes’ family loved having Steve around  _ so much _ that Mr. Barnes had spread his arms wide open like Creed and had invited Steve to move in and live happily ever after. The End. 

People had mostly bought it, and those who’d called bullshit had been quickly shut down by their official ‘Stucky Protection Squad’ (named by some guy with awful fading blue hair). Turns out that Tony, Sam, and Clint could sell bullshit with the best of them...wait...backup...that was nothing new for Clint...and while Skinner and Daisy didn’t know all the facts, they knew enough to spin the fake news at seven. Frank and TJ...well, Bucky didn’t wanna think about those two because they weren’t supposed to know shit. And since he didn’t  _ remember _ spilling the entire story, down to the very last juicy detail, Bucky was gonna go ahead and  _ pretend _ that they didn’t know shit. 

But the teachers? They didn’t care if Steve had gotten run over by a tank or trampled in the annual running of the bulls, they’d obviously held a little get-together in the teacher’s lounge over a big platter of stale danishes to form an evil consensus that Steve’d had more than enough time to heal from his traumatic encounter with a ‘U-Haul truck’. Evil! Teachers were pure evil in business casual! Their shocking lack of compassion and reason meant, that for the past six fucking days, Bucky’d been staring at his boyfriend while he diligently hunched over their oddly clean desk after school. So fucking lame! There was less time for singing and sexy dancing, the Daily Movie Debate had met its sad end, Bucky was having less sneaky sex, and, worst of all, Steve was neck deep in some horribly complex creative writing thing on a fucking  _ Saturday _ when they were  _ supposed _ to be putting on makeup and bringing Bucky’s favorite movie to life! Steve in black eyeliner with honey and glitter was  _ gonna _ happen.

Looking over Steve’s shoulder at the cursor, Bucky saw: big word, adjective, adjective, adjective, bigger word, adverb, adverb, verb, big word,  _ huge _ word, sappy stuff, period. Yeah, enough of this shit. Present time!

“Hey, Steve. Can you take a break for a minute?”

Steve’s hands didn’t slow down at all. In fact, his face got even closer to the screen as the word ‘symbiotic’ was brought into existence. That was a big fucking word! 

“Jesus, Buck,” Steve mumbled at the screen, “what the hell is this guy singing about? Did he just say, ‘what a beautiful ass’?”

“Yes, yes he did. He’s also singing about putting on makeup, wearing a paper bag over his head while he’s getting laid, and going down on a guy while he’s happily trashed on dope.” 

No reaction, just type type type type type type.

“Just give me another second...I’ve gotta finish this thought…”

Bucky kept reading as the words appeared; tapping his toes, trying really hard to relax his jaw and force down his irrational anger at all twenty six letters in the alphabet. Fuck this.

Turning, Bucky tossed Steve’s present on top of the dresser and caught sight of the giant box on the floor and POW! Stellar idea! He shouldn’t be wearing this unicorn skin anyway. Honestly, Bucky didn’t even remember putting it on. He could have sworn that he’d squeezed his ass into a pair of Nat’s turquoise yoga pants for Steve’s Morning Laugh at breakfast, ‘cause that shit was funny! Dick curving down his leg on full display with some legendary male camel toe...would you call that ‘ball toe’? ‘Nut toe’? ‘Squirrel toe’? What did squirrel toes even look like? Definitely not like Bucky’s ball sack in yoga pants. Back to the unicorn; it had arrived via FedEx at some mysterious point in time (Bucky didn’t fucking know when), but he clearly remembered discovering a note tucked inside the arm the first time he’d worn it that had read, ‘To help you feel safe’. Nobody’d asked Bucky about it’s magical debut...except the Tic Tac King...so yeah, he should probably take it off.

Unzipping the furry, white fabric, Bucky let the unicorn magic fall around his feet before squatting down to slide his hand inside the box. Let’s see Steve try to ignore him in these…

Since Bucky’s new outfit included exactly two pieces: one gold platform glitter boot and the other gold platform glitter boot, plus one song change (‘The Ballad of Maxwell Demon’, of course), Bucky was back to hovering over Steve’s shoulder in no time.

_...the sense of injustice drove the man forward… _

“Stevie...”

_...his determination undeterred by trials, hardship, or seemingly unbreachable walls… _

Despite his excellent outfit (Bowie would  _ so _ approve), Bucky’s heart rate was going up, up, up with each letter that transferred from Steve’s fingers to the screen. The sound of the keys alone...jesus...he needed it to stop. “Steve!” Bucky blurted out a little too loudly. “I made you a present.”

The keyboard  _ finally _ stopped clacking, and the enormous words organized in overly fancy ways  _ finally _ stopped appearing way too fucking quickly. In the quiet, from his almost seven-foot-tall, naked vantage point, Bucky took a second to remind himself that Steve was a  _ poet _ , and poets write  _ poetry _ . It’s what they do. Writers  _ write _ , artists  _ art _ , swimmers  _ swim _ , archers... _ arch? _ Bucky snorted. That was a good one. Liars  _ lie _ . Wackos  _ wack _ . That was even better. Bucky snorted twice as loud.

Swiveling his legs around, Steve rubbed at his eyes. “What? Did you say ‘present’? Holy fucking shit! You’re super naked!”

“Oh, I see how it is. That’s what it takes to get you to stop, hmm? I’ve gotta whip out my ‘Jingle Balls’ and make everyday Christmas morning to get Steven Grant Rogers to pay attention to me.”

“Just boots.”

“What, these old things?” Bucky did a slow turn, letting the sun reflect off of the glittery leather and making sure to run his hand over the curve of his ass, pulling a little to give Mr. Rogers the perfect view.

“Holy fuck.”

“You should write me into your story, Stevie,” Bucky drawled. “Just like this.” Planting his feet wide, Bucky slid his hands down over his collarbones, making sure to pinch his nipples as he followed the trail over his muscles then wrapped one hand around his dick and slapped his ass with the other. “Unless I wouldn’t fit in with your character’s quest to end injustice…”

“What? No, I...wow, baby. Look at you. Can you...come...holy shit.”

Yeah, Steve was broken. 

“You like me like this, Stevie?”

“Bucky,” he gasped. “I don’t know whether I should draw you or fall to my knees to worship at your glittering feet. God, my mouth’s watering just thinking about wrapping my hands around those heels as I slide into you.” Steve stretched out his fingers like he wanted to touch but couldn’t decide where to start. “Baby, you look…” Steve trailed off (still broken) as his eyes did a slow sweep of Bucky’s body from head to toe and then back again. “...this is such a step up from that unicorn onesie.”

_   ...To help you feel safe...  _

Full disclosure: Bucky’d been pregaming this party a little bit, both with the magical furry unicorn skin and the equally magical Tic Tac container with the arrow pointing up up up, but it was mother fucking  _ Halloween,  _ right!? Devils and angels were out in full force along with sharp toothed demons named Brock. And the onesie? Well, its fuzzy fuzzy fur was supposed to help with the teeth; act like shark repellent or something. But more on that later...

Bucky didn’t know why DonnieD2’s name kept flashing across his shattered screen with a shit ton of decoder ring messages telling Bucky to ‘meet me at ‘fill in the blank’’, or why Bucky’s ass always ended up at ‘fill in the blank’ without any recollection of receiving a goddamn text in the first place! But it kept fucking happening. The worst one (if huge memory lapses could be organized into a list according to levels of ‘worseness’) was when Bucky’d found himself sprawled in the backseat of TJ’s metallic silver BMW, drinking something out of a flask, and trying to convince an equally sprawled out TJ to dress up like Donnie Darko for Tony’s party. From the little snippets Bucky could remember, there’d been a very confusing story about Frank running into Brock at some sort of ‘Godfather’ bad guy meeting where threats had been made en masse: Rumlow’s family had threatened to fuck up Frank’s family, Frank’s family had threatened to annihilate Rumlow’s family, Al Pacino had threatened Mr. Castle directly, Frank had shot ten-zillion bullets into a mountain of coke...Bucky didn’t fucking know...but the gist had been ‘imminent mobster danger’. For some reason, TJ’d been designated as the messenger; a carrier pigeon in a striped tie, sent to warn Bucky that Brock had whispered into Frank’s ear that he was ‘coming for that long haired faggot’. It was all a little (a lot) fuzzy around the edges, and Bucky kept picturing Joe Pesci getting pulverized with a baseball bat, so the accuracy of this story was probably hovering at around twenty-three percent, give or take a hundred. 

And  _ that’s _ why Bucky wasn’t supposed to dress up like a puffy unicorn or bite into crunchy red apples from the garden! Making sense yet? Probably not.

See, the day he’d materialized in TJ’s Beamer, Bucky’d bailed on the supercalifragilisticexpialidocious plans that he’d had with ‘Steve and The Gang’ after school. They’d planned a trip to the best costume shop in the city, where happy-go-lucky girls and boys could throw on cheap feather boas and tango with fake skeletons, hide under Hillary and Trump masks while stabbing each other with plastic swords, and hop around on witches brooms pretending to fuck each other in the ass. Bucky’d been waiting for that shit all day; daydreaming about the orange and silver makeup he needed for his Bowie transformation, wondering if Skinner was gonna stop being a sarcastic dick and get a real costume this year, and praying that he and Steve would find a solid pair of handcuffs to try out later! But  _ nooo _ , ‘Bucky’ had sent a lame ass text to Steve instead: ‘Food Poisoning. Go ahead w/o me. Nat knows what we need. Takin’ Uber. Luv u’, then had found himself in the backseat of the anti-Prius with his feet propped up in TJ’s lap. He’d been wearing the fat cat socks. TJ wasn’t supposed to touch the fat cat socks. 

Bucky’d spent at least forty-five minutes in the Bermuda Triangle that day: sending texts he didn’t remember sending (Bucky was gonna call it ‘lunatic texting’...like ‘drunk texting’, but for crazy people), pulling the laces out of his blue Docs and inexplicably weaving them through the button holes on TJ’s grey dress shirt, trying to figure out how the fuck to  _ untie _ the knots so he could  _ unweave _ the fucking laces from TJ’s shirt and put them back in his boots where they belonged, and, somewhere in there, getting so wasted that he couldn’t walk in a straight line after he’d stumbled out of the car. Horrible. All of it. 

But that hadn’t been the worst of the worst. That juicy little nugget had come later, when Bucky’d been hanging onto the toilet for dear life, puking his guts out, and had caught a whiff of his hair. Underneath the gross scent of eau de vomette, the strands had smelled like he’d been rolling around in a vat of mother fucking applesauce after a rave gone wrong! Puke and goddamn gala apples everywhere! The second he’d heard Steve and Natasha come through the front door after their Halloween adventure, Bucky’d crawled down the hall and had slinked into bed like the dog he was, getting the stench all over the pillow. Of course his thoughtful, sweet boyfriend had stopped at the diner down the street to pick up a big bowl of homemade chicken noodle soup with a bunch of Bucky’s favorite little packets of oyster crackers. And,  _ of course, _ Bucky hadn’t said a word about any of it as Stevie’s soup and crackers had soaked up the alcohol (and whatever else). And, just like nobody’d questioned Bucky about the sudden arrival of the magical unicorn, nobody had asked how the fuck he’d gotten food poisoning from a bag of pretzels and a bottle of green Gatorade. 

“Baby, hey.” Steve was looking up at him expectantly. 

Right. The first rule of pretending that you  _ aren’t  _ a wacko: Don’t pause in the middle of a conversation for no reason. 

“Yeah, sorry!” Bucky snatched the crappily wrapped present off the dresser and thrust it into Steve’s lap. “I got you a present!”

“Oh really?” Running his hand up Bucky’s thigh, Steve licked his bottom lip as he murmured, “I thought my present was you naked in these boots.” 

“No! I was just using gratuitous nudity to make you pay attention to me. Open it! Open it!” Bucky bounced up and down so his dick slapped his legs as he tried not to lose his balance. How the fuck did people walk around in heels all day without constantly falling over!? 

The second the sound of Steve peeling back the blue striped paper hit Bucky’s eardrums, he got super fucking nervous! Shaking in his boots nervous (snort)! He’d been working his ass off all week to get everything done in time...Ms. Jaeger’d even let him slide on the boring still-life unit so he could draw most of it during art... and he just...yeah, Steve was the real artist...fuck...Bucky’s face felt all tingly. He just really, really, really wanted Steve to like it.

As soon as the paper got tossed to the side and Steve realized what he was holding, his face lit up like sunshine...literal burn your eyeballs out solar flare sunshine...and Bucky felt like a beaming space oddity who’d finally done something right. He got a funny image of Stevie sensually petting his head and saying ‘good boy, space unicorn’ as Bucky knelt before him, hard unicorn horn vs. Steve’s hard cock. Fucking hilarious...wait, he’d taken off the forbidden unicorn...whatever, it was too funny not to snort.

Rule number two of pretending that you  _ aren’t _ a wacko: Don’t snort out loud at the surreal things happening inside of your head.

In Steve’s hands was a brand new sketchbook and a set of super pro drawing pencils; and they weren’t the shitty kind that you could buy at Meijer. Naw, fam, Bucky’d traveled to exotic places far and wide to buy his frugal boo the fancy pants leather-bound variety, because Steve was still struggling to spend the first bundle of blood money that had landed in his sparkling new bank account. Thus far, Steve’s expenditures and worldly possessions were as follows:

 

1k to Phil Barnes (accepted under protest) for rent and food for the month of October

1 Revenge Prius, parked in the garage collecting dust because Steve refused to drive it

1 blue henley 

1 maroon henley 

1 accidentally pink polo shirt 

2 pairs of ‘reasonably priced’ jeans

1 new black hoodie (Art Spy uniform)

1 grey leather jacket (Blood removal courtesy of a toothbrush and Bucky Barnes)

1 plaid scarf (courtesy of Natasha)

1 Dodgers hat (also courtesy of Natasha)

1 wallet and 1 phone (retrieved from hospital)

1 new pair of blue and grey suede high top Vans (because you can’t live life with only one bloody white Nike)

1 bloody white Nike (also retrieved from hospital) 

At least 1k distributed in $20 increments to homeless people, waiters, taxi and Uber drivers, and ‘pay it forward’ moments at Starbucks ( _ every _ time they went to Starbucks) 

 

That was it. 

Steve was still keepin’ his pits powder fresh with Bucky’s deodorant, squeezing his cute little ass into Bucky’s boxer briefs, and had been rockin’ a surprisingly open minded selection of Bucky’s weird socks. Silly Sock Steve parading around the locker room after weight training in black undies and pizza socks was Bucky’s new aesthetic. Oh, how killer would it be if Steve wore the cheese and pepperoni triangles on his feet when he got around to fucking Bucky in these boots!? Wait, the boots! Bucky had to add them to the list! Steve had dropped a fuck ton of dolla dolla bills on these glittery gems, not to mention the rest of their Halloween costumes! Sequins and feathers were fucking expensive! 

It had taken some convincing (and a few days of Bucky going method as a glam rock god who  _ loved _ to suck cock), but Steve had finally broken down and given Roman the tailor a call. The conversation had gone a little somethin’ like this: 

_ ‘Yo, yo, yo, Roman! Tom Ford’s still treatin’ you good, I assume? Yeah? Kickass! So you wanna get in on a side hustle? You remember my boyfriend, Bucky, right? The devilishly handsome one with the sexy dance moves? Yeah, that’s the one! Well, he really wants us to dress up like Brian Slade and Curt Wild from ‘Velvet Goldmine’ for Halloween, so how about I slip you a cool G and you sew us up some glam rock masterpieces?’  _

Bucky snorted because that wasn’t true at all. Well, the part where he’d dialed up Roman was accurate and Steve  _ had _ dropped a fat stack, but the rest...nah. He dissolved into giggles as he imagined Steve makin’ it rain while Roman hand-stitched a billion sequins. 

“Something you wanna share before I properly thank you for this perfect gift? Hmm?” Steve’s fingers were carefully tracing the edges of the thick cover as he plopped his bare feet on the tops of Bucky’s killer boots. 

“Nope,” Bucky answered, popping the P and rocking back the tiniest bit on his heels. “Do you like it!? It’s not the shitty kind...it’s got the super thick paper and the hand-sewn binding...I dragged Skinner and Daisy to the super fancy art store in Soho while you were at that  meeting about saving bisexual people from misrepresentation in the media and doing hot yoga with a squadron of sexually confused LGBTQ teens.”

Steve’s sigh was epic. “Buck, you know I was talking to the youth coordinator at the LGBTQ center about how to reach the most kids with Pierce’s money.”

“Yeah, that’s what I said! Duh. So, anyway, me and the OG crew, minus my doghouse bound bestie, took a little field trip to buy you something that I knew you wouldn’t buy for yourself. I mean, if you won’t even buy  your own pit protection, twig and berry holders, and foot sweaters, I knew for sure that you weren’t gonna ‘splurge’ on something like art supplies.”

Steve smiled that sweet smile of his, the one that always made Bucky feel fizzy, before he touched the silver words on the cover and whispered, “Tell me what this says, baby.”

Bucky’d used silver paint pens to carefully print ‘ Я люблю тебя’ in big, bold letters across the front. He’d even drawn little spirals in the corners to add some pizazz, and, if he’d thrown in a couple gooey hearts along the edges, he’d never admit it. Laughing, Bucky leaned in to kiss Steve’s forehead, careful not to step on his toes (those little digits weren’t easy to come by once they went missing). “Oh, honey bunny, you’re gonna have to use Google Translate to figure it out ‘cause you should know that one by now. I’ve written it on a fuck ton of your Morning Laugh sticky notes!”

“Yeah, I know! But you’ve never told me what it means!” 

“Oh…” Bucky took a moment to ponder the accuracy of that statement, determining that Steve was, in fact, totally right. “...guess I never thought about that. Fine, since you can’t magically read Russian, I’ll give you a hint. Every time you’ve done something wonderfully naughty to my body, I mumble it when I’m coming out of subspace. I know I do.”   

Steve’s eyes tracked over the words again and his smile turned even sweeter; a hint of pink making his cheeks all cute and rosy. “It means ‘I love you’, right?”

“Mmm, hmm. That’s why I drew so many sappy hearts around the edges. But the best part’s inside!” God, Bucky was gonna explode from excitement! He did a lil’ shimmy (sans horns and congas) to release some of the bubbles. “C’mon! Open it!”

Bucky wasn’t delusional...at least not about who the real artist was in the room (Steve drew shit like he hung out with Michelangelo on the daily)...but Bucky wasn’t half bad at weird  _ sort of  _ Anime cartoons ( _ extra extra _ emphasis on ‘sort of’). The idea for the best present ever had hit one night when Steve had been sketching Bucky’s hand on the back of a math worksheet. First of all, someone like Steve should  _ never _ have to draw on recycled calculus papers covered in potato chip grease (idea #1: buy Steve a new sketchbook), and, secondly, Bucky’d wanted to immortalize some of the things he’d done right, some of the good memories they’d made, just like Steve had captured the details of Bucky’s left hand (idea #2: draw a few of their best moments for Steve). 

The harsh reality was that Bucky’d been losing more and more time each day, his Tic Tac containers needed refilling constantly, and the smell of goddamn apples was fucking everywhere. He hated himself for all of it. But so many good things had happened in between the shit and the holes; moments like pulling the kitchen table away from the wall so Steve could fit when his dad, Natasha, and Bucky stuffed their faces with meatloaf and mashed potatoes, ending each day smooshed together like magnetic spoons after saying ‘I love you’ and having it said right back, and the never ending hilarity of Steve accidentally setting shit on fire.  _ Those _ were the things he clung to, holding on for dear life as Steve did increasingly amazing things while Bucky did the opposite. God, that was fucking depressing. He needed another Tic Tac. Okay, back on fucking track: brilliant idea, field trip to Soho, cool art teacher letting Bucky use her Prismacolors, Bucky and a few hired guns drawing a bunch of memories at the beginning of the sketchbook, naked present presentation to adorable, too good for this world boyfriend, and nervous anticipation. It was stupidly romantic (Ryan Gosling would be proud), and Bucky didn’t know whether to jump up and down in excitement or crawl underneath the mattress as Steve flipped to the first page…

               

 

“You drew this for me?” Steve raised his big puppy dog eyes, all saucer-like and earnest, and Bucky swore that he heard an itty bitty puppy dog whimper slip out of the corner of his puppy dog mouth. Sticking with the theme, he stuck his fingers in Steve’s messy blond hair and gave him a good pet. “Bucky, this is…”

“Brilliant?” he interrupted. “Yeah, I know. It’s kinda my thing. Drawing stuff.” Cracking up, Bucky poked at his tiny Madonna boobies on the page. “I know it's kindergarten next to what you can do, but it’s the thought that counts, right?”

“You shut your mouth right now, Bucky Barnes.” Steve kicked at Bucky’s glam rock shins and supersized his smile. “This is the cutest thing I’ve ever seen.”

“Then turn the page! There’s more!”

Raising his eyebrows, Stevie Steve Steve flipped to drawing numero dos y doe. Bucky was damn proud of this one. Drawing fire was fucking hard!

                

 

Fire! Water! Destruction! Steve laughed, then did the ‘jaw thing’, which meant that he totally loved Bucky’s stupid drawings. How could he tell? Well, when Steve Rogers set his jaw and swallowed a bunch of times, it was his universal tell for ‘serious emotions happening’. The rate of swallowing meant that Bucky’d hit the emotional jackpot.

Daisy, who’d acted as his artistic cheerleader and his ‘official colored pencil sharpener’, had promised that Bucky was gonna get tears and awe, but he hadn’t entirely believed her. They were just silly cartoons.

“Bucky,” Steve gasped, “I can’t believe you drew pictures of our memories. This is unbelievable!”

“Yeah, it’s like a sentimental photo album of all the stupid shit you’ve done since becoming my house husband.”

“I’m not your house husband.” Steve snickered. “We’ve talked about this.”

“Do you live in this  _ house _ with me?”

“Yes.”

“Are we married?”

“No.”

“Well, I’m half right, and it’s stupid to call you my ‘house boyfriend’.” Bucky spread his feet a little wider, like a naked giraffe trying to drink water...yeah, all giraffes are ‘naked’, duh, but Bucky needed to emphasize that his cock and balls were dangling in this giraffe analogy...then kissed the tip of Steve’s nose. “House boyfriend doesn’t have the same romantic ring to it.”

“Are you saying you want me to put a ring on it, Bucky?” 

Steve did the raised eyebrow thing (his universal tell for ‘smartass little shit’), and Bucky had the audacity to glance at his empty left hand before coming to his goddamn senses! “What? Are you crazy? This drawing illustrates that you don’t even know how to use a microwave!”

“We could order take-out every night. I’m pretty sure I can use the phone without setting the house on fire.”

Blinking a few times, Bucky giraffed his legs even wider and properly kissed Steve’s soft lips. “When you order Chinese, I prefer my General Tso’s extra spicy, and always ask for extra guac when you get us Mexican. Now, please give my dangling giraffe balls a little squeeze before you turn the fucking page. Jesus, Stevie, you’re turning into a sixteen-year-old girl.”

              

 

Post ball fondle, Steve was slowly touching his fingertip to each little person on the bed in the drawing, like he was having deep thoughts about each one, and Bucky grinned from ear to ear. That night Steve and Samwise Gamgee had officially been initiated into Alpha Phi Misfit (no hazing required) with Bucky and his house hubby co-hosting their first ‘Super Friends Unite Ultimate Slumber Party’! Snuggled up with all their friends, that night had been one of the good ones: no dreams, no night sweats, no cold showers. 

Bucky was lost in thought when Steve asked, “Who’s this one?”

“Huh?” Glancing at where Steve was pointing, a little figure was curled up around Bucky’s feet with his arms wrapped tightly around Bucky’s nine toes. It was his job to...fuck! Bucky’s pulse skyrocketed...it was his job to keep them attached. To keep him safe. To stop the teeth. 10-1=9. If TJ was there, Brock couldn’t do any more subtraction. “I hate math.”

Steve squinted up at him, concern in his sweet blue eyes. 

Rule number three of pretending that you  _ aren’t _ a wacko: Don’t blurt out random phrases that make no sense to anyone in the real world.

“That’s Tony,” Bucky mumbled.

“Tony wasn’t there.”

“Yeah, but he  _ should _ have been. Remember, we invited him, but he was presenting that big fancy thing-a-ma-jiggy that he invented at MIT.” Bucky put on the biggest smile he could muster, all Sparkle Fever, and kept lying through his Starboy teeth. “I drew him because it would have been extra awesome if Tony’d been piled up with us, instead of, you know, saving the planet.”

Steve tapped the little head of hair that was  _ way _ too long to be Tony Stark’s. Tony’s hair smelled like money and the only scent in the air was apples. Colored pencil lines getting tapped like Steve’s keyboard, but instead of typing big words like ‘symbiotic’ maybe he’d type something simple? Four letters maybe? L. I. A. R.? All caps. Bold. Underlined.

“We haven’t gotten to see Tony much lately, have we?” Tapping fingers wrapped around Bucky’s left hand. “Between that new guy he’s been hanging out with and the project...”

“That’s why I’m so fucking excited for the party tonight! C’mon, Stevie. Turn the page and see what’s next!”

Please turn the page...turn the page...turn the page... _ please _ . 

Thankfully, he did.

           

 

“This is obscene.” Steve almost choked on his spit, but Bucky saw his dick getting hard in his jeans. Like, super soft chillin’ dick, to raging hard, verging on painful, boner in 0.5 seconds.

Careful to avoid the fucking scar, Bucky rubbed his hands on either side of Steve’s head and rolled his hips in the dirtiest way possible to prove a  _ very important _ point. “Oh, Stevie, you love it when I’m obscene, especially that day...remember how you used that dildo along side your cock to stretch...”  

“Bucky! Oh my god!” 

‘Sunburned pig’ would be a fair description of Steve’s skin color as Bucky turned around and bent over to give him a visual reminder of that day. “Tell me you love it when I’m obscene and I’ll put on a little show.”

The sudden slap across Bucky’s bare ass went right to his dick, and when Steve’s tongue licked Bucky in the most _extra_ _extra extra_ obscene way possible, he felt himself slipping.  

“Baby,” Steve drawled, “I love it when you’re dirty.” He bit the soft part of Bucky’s ass, right above his thigh, and chuckled. “But this drawing...this is straight up porn.”

Shit. Bucky’d very quickly forgotten all about the sketchbook; a tongue swirling around your ass will do that. Doing his best Elle Woods’ ‘bend and snap’, Bucky put his hands on Steve’s super broad, super hot, superhero shoulders and declared, “Then I’m the best artist in the world, because our sex life  _ is _ like the best porn!”  

Nuzzling his nose in the tiny hairs on Bucky’s stomach, Steve mumbled, “Maybe we can sneak out of the party later tonight when you’re wearing the rest of this outfit...damn, baby, I can’t wait to see this beautiful body surrounded by red feathers and a million sparkles…we can find a dark corner? Let me show you how dirty I’d like you to be?”

Great. Now  _ Bucky _ had a raging hard, verging on painful, boner and there was nothing to contain it, unless Steve dipped his head just a tiny bit lower and slipped the tip into his mouth. God! So distracting! 

Giggling, Bucky pushed Steve backwards and batted him away. “Will you just turn the page? Jesus!”

                  

 

Bucky didn’t see the billions of knives that he’d drawn in the pumpkin until after Steve had let out a big belly laugh (hopefully about the pumpkin guts, not Bucky’s psychopathic illustration), and he prayed that Steve didn’t fucking notice. Seriously, what the fuck? That night he’d carved a nice, normal, traditional, non-wacko pumpkin...the jack-o-lantern was still sitting on the porch to prove it...and Bucky could have sworn that he’d drawn it like it was supposed to be! He’d been staring at these drawings all week! 

“I still don’t know how you touched that stuff with your bare hands, Buck. It was like puke mixed with mucus mixed with snake scales.”

Yes! Thank fucking god! Goopy pumpkin guts trumped sharp knives! Bucky rocked forward on his toes and touched Steve’s little freaked out cartoon face. Damn, these boots were really hard on his calves! He needed to sit his naked ass down! “I guess I’m just a braver man than you, Captain Rogers. I mean, really? Garbage bags on your arms? It looked like you were sporting giant condoms to prevent pumpkin STDs!”

“I was protecting my cast!”

“Nice try,” Bucky snorted. “Last time I looked, your right arm was working just fine.”

Suddenly, all laughter stopped as Steve’s finger discovered Bucky’s top secret message (that was featured front and center right in the middle of the page). The anticipation level skyrocketed, because Bucky had ideas and this was kinda like testing the waters of Steve’s ass. The ‘not at all secret top secret message’ read, ‘PS. This was the night that you let me stick my finger in your butt for the first time. Never forget how hard you came, Stevie. You’re welcome. ;)’

“Are you serious?”

“I’m in my birthday suit wearing knee high boots and accessorizing with a raging boner. Of course, I’m serious.” Bucky gave him a saucy wink for good measure, then whispered, “I’m super down to do it again. Maybe get you up to two fingers...or three?”

“I’m sure you are,” Steve scoffed, but the crinkly corners of his eyes betrayed him completely. Judas eyes. Super hot. Mark ‘butt play’ on Bucky’s calendar ‘cause Stevie was  _ down! _

Bucky slapped at the sketchbook to push him along. “One more page, Stevie. Flip it! Flip it! Flip it! I can’t wait one more second to see you in black leather and eyeliner...I’m gonna tell Natasha to do extra extra extra...because my need to see those blue eyes surrounded by thick black eyeliner is fucking real! So, c’mon, flip it!”

“God, always so impatient. Maybe I’ll make you wait for it tonight…?”

“Steve!”

The last drawing was Bucky’s favorite and he really hoped Steve liked it too, because, when it all came down to it, he just wanted Steve to like him...

        

 

After touching almost every macaroni noodle (there were a million), Steve slowly closed the book and grinned like a goofy goober. “I like how the macaroni noodles look cheesy.”

“Oh, that was a total accident. I was already halfway through coloring them when Daisy thought to mention that you don’t typically glue _cooked,_ _cheese covered_ mac and cheese to picture frames with a hot glue gun! I guess glue doesn’t adhere to artificial cheese very well, plus there’s the eventual rotting situation and the mice that would show up to eat it. But I’d already spent half the class coloring those noodles, and that was _with_ that smartass kid, Caiden, helping me! Plus, I ‘borrowed’ twenty bucks from Sam to pay the asshole for his artistic services, so I wasn’t gonna start over. I mean, Sam was outta money…”

Steve leaned over and picked up Little Panda from his spot on the pillow. His fur was getting matted already, and Bucky’d totally spilled some mystery SpaghettiOs on his white belly, but his black eyes hadn’t lost their magic. Every time he looked at the fuzzy little guy, Bucky got zapped back to that hospital gift shop zoo with all the other trapped animals. Mr. and Miss Gender Specific Teddy Bear still didn’t like it on the shelf, Mr. Fat Elephant still hated the glass, and the fuzzy bunnies had gotten so fuzzy that they didn’t even know where the fuck they were anymore! Tribbles on meth! Bucky on speed! Brock tapping on the glass, tapping, tapping, tapping...Bucky wanted to scream because he didn’t like everyone fucking looking at him all the time!

“Baby?”

Rule number four of pretending that you  _ aren’t _ a wacko: when you lose time, act natural and spew out a bunch of nonsense.

“Oh, sorry. I got lost in Little Panda’s magic eyes for a sec. He’s a sorcerer or something, drawing his mystical powers from the roots of an ancient bamboo forest that he’d digested into his very soul before getting trapped in that gift shop prison. A beacon of destiny, waiting patiently for me to walk by…”

“Buck,” Steve interrupted. 

If Bucky heard Brock tapping it was Tic Tac time. Fuck.

Little Panda’s head wobbled a little as Steve moved to the bed and sat in the exact place that Bucky’d drawn him. Patting the wadded up sheets to his left, Steve grinned and asked, “Babydoll, will you  _ please _ sit down and do me the honor of bringing this picture to life?” 

A storm of blueberries was raining down from the ceiling and pooling around Steve’s body, rolling off the edges and falling around his feet.

“Oh, c’mon, don’t leave me here by myself.”

It took a second for Bucky to get it, but Stevie’s happy face pulled him back. And Little Panda sitting on his lap? Well, that was a dream that Bucky wanted to hold on to, even if it seemed less likely with every fruit attack. Plastering on a smile, Bucky quipped, “I think you need glasses, Steve, ‘cause my drawing features taco pants, cat pants, gay novelty t-shirts, and questionably drawn hair, but there’s definitely no David Bowie glam rock glitter dick. By the way, I’m sorry I made you look like a super hot, buff lesbian. I don’t know what happened there.”

“I don’t care what you’re wearing...or not wearing.” Steve lunged forward and grabbed Bucky’s hand, dangerously steering him to the bed and tugging him into position (Heels! Jesus!). But the second Steve wrapped his arm over Bucky’s shoulder and they became the picture, everything else faded away. Planting a big smooch on Bucky’s cheek, he whispered, “I just love you.”

Boom. There he was in all his glory. Steve Rogers, whose hair was sticking up everywhere from running his hands through it a million times while spending his Saturday writing essays. Steve Rogers, who’d stood up to a powerful, violent man in his own way, then had found a way to help a shit ton of other rainbow superstar gaybies with his sacrifice. Steve Rogers, who’d refused to buy more than three boring shirts on sale at the fucking Gap because he thought his money was better spent buying bags of dog food for the homeless guy who hung out by the record store with his pitbull, Sparky. Steve Rogers, who, once he finished healing, would be wined and dined by the best colleges and given the opportunity to swim with the best athletes in the country, but who’d run his fingers along a colorful graffiti tag in the subway station the other day and had admitted that he’d rather go to art school. Steve Rogers, who loved Radiohead, dealt with Bucky’s ‘General Hospital Best Friend Daytime Drama’ with nothing but love and understanding, punched an asshole in the face to keep a promise, and had escaped a hospital to walk for miles in the middle of the night to crawl into bed with Bucky.  _ That _ was the person Bucky wanted to spend the rest of his life with, even if Steve never learned to do laundry.

Wiggling their butts together, Bucky let a big old grin spread across his face, because Steve’s request to recreate his cheesy drawing? Well, with Steve by his side, that was one wish that Bucky could grant easily, even with his cock out. Steve wasn’t perfect...he couldn’t see past his own heart sometimes, and, dammit, someone as fucked up as Bucky sure as hell didn’t deserve him...but Bucky still wanted Steve to be  _ the one _ because of picture perfect moments like this.

Little Panda found his way onto their thighs as Steve declared, “I love you no matter what, Buck, and I’d be honored to put a ring on it some day. I don’t care if you think I’m a sixteen-year-old girl for imagining it. Now, smile and say, ‘macaroni and cheese’.”

All three of them grinned across the room as the imaginary camera focused and clicked. The flash was blinding, but Bucky didn’t care. He was too busy pretending that he was the sweet little colored pencil version of himself so they could capture at least one perfect moment in their macaroni frame.

***** 

  
  


Bucky loved Tony. He also hated him sometimes. Half the time at least. Maybe sixty percent hate. But not tonight. No, tonight there was only overwhelming love for the drunk brainiac with the misguided sense of helpfulness, because the motherfucker had somehow made this ‘toned down’ Halloween gathering the most bomb ass party that Bucky’d ever been to. Not that Bucky’s historical timeline was packed with a long list of parties to use as comparison; most had involved ice cream cakes from Baskin Robbins, four misfits raging in a messy bedroom, or jumping around with Clint to Salsa music during his neighborhood’s annual block parties. Since he’d gotten to know Tony Stark on  _ much  _ more than a first name basis, Bucky’s party list had gained substantial street cred. 

The Mad Hatter Rave with the glow sticks, glowing drinks, and the afterglow from ‘losing his virginity to the most beautiful boy in all of Wonderland’ had previously held the number one party spot, followed by the ‘gay as fuck’ fantasy that had been Therapy: go-go boys’ with their ass cheeks hanging out, Steve in a tank top, Bucky’s debut as the pimp of all pimps, and...did he already mention Steve all sweaty on the dance floor in a tight tank top?... ‘cause,  _ damn! _ That yummy sight had earned their Tribeca adventure the silver medal, right above his thirteenth birthday party which had been, for all intents and purposes, Bucky’s  _ first _ birthday party. But throw nostalgia and sad orphan stories right out the window, and push that middle school shit right off the podium, because Tony Stark’s ghosts and goblins had just won gold! 

Steve had their fingers interlocked as he guided Bucky through an enormous pair of fancy wooden doors into the ballroom. It took at least three seconds for the word to register properly...to roll around his hindbrain and accept what his eyes were seeing...because the party was in a _mother fucking_ _ballroom_! How the hell did Tony have a _ballroom_ in his house that Bucky’d _missed_ the first time he’d been here!? It’s not like closing the door of your messy bedroom so your friends don’t find your stash of porn and discover how much of a perv you are! It’s a _giant fucking ballroom!_

“Wanna make some room?” 

“Huh?” 

Bucky followed the voice, which had come from really really really far beneath him (damn, these boots made him a fucking giant!) and discovered Skinner reaching up under Bucky’s red feathers to gently push him forward. Apparently, Bucky’d pulled a full stop in the doorway and was blocking traffic, but who could blame him? Craning his neck up at the two story ceiling, Bucky was fascinated by the chandeliers hanging in a glittering Liberace rectangle that were surrounded by thousands of orange and black balloons. They were dancing across the surface like a bucket full of black spiders crawling over thousands of Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups. That was a weird analogy, but it was fucking true!

As soon as they’d cleared the entrance, Natasha stood on her tiptoes in her black stilettos and patted the dimple on Bucky’s chin. “Have fun, baby brother. Be safe and don’t mess up my makeup.” Nodding in Steve’s direction, she got all serious and put on her intimidating face. “Keep him safe, Steve.” 

“It’s a party, Natalia, not a war zone,” Bucky snapped. “Really? ‘Keep him safe’? What does that even mean?”

“It  _ means _ , don’t get too messed up.” Natasha looped a finger over Steve’s big belt buckle and tugged. “And it means that dad wants all of us home by three, and since Clint isn’t here to help me wrangle two six-foot-tall drunk idiots, I need you to keep it together. Plus, I worked too hard on your hair and makeup for you to get sloppy. Okay?”

Steve rested his hand over Natasha’s, which was super weird since they were both holding onto Steve’s low slung belt buckle, but Bucky supposed it was the thought that counted when Steve said, “I’m sorry about Clint.”

“Yeah, me to. Now, do you promise to keep an eye on him?”

“I’m not five, jesus, Natasha!”

“I’ve got him, don’t worry,” Steve said casually. “Look, Pepper and Peggy are waving at you.” Pointing towards a mob of people (where Bucky did  _ not _ see Pepper or Peggy), Steve kissed the top of her head between her cat ears. “Go on, Natasha, have fun.” 

The look she gave Bucky was weird; almost like she was about to cry or something. “Yakov, you look beautiful, like everything colorful that’s always lived inside here…” She smoothed down the longest red feathers before finishing. “...is finally on the outside for the world to see. I’ll always be here for you...you know that, don’t you?”

A drink was thrust into Bucky’s hand, and he barely had time to register Scott shoving one into Steve’s before Natasha got scooped up in a big bear hug by Sam the Man. And that was it. The crowd filled in around them, and his sister got pulled off into the fog. But her eyes...and Clint dumping her and hoeing out on the party...and the three Xanax he’d popped before driving the Revenge Prius to party central...and  _ Yakov. _ Bucky slammed the entire drink, thrilled that it burned like hell on the way down, and didn’t look in Natalia’s direction again.

“C’mon, baby,” Steve encouraged, tugging his hand, which was funny since he didn’t need any encouragement...he’d follow Steve anywhere! 

The marble floor vibrated under Bucky’s feet as he spun in a slow circle in front of shirtless Steve. It was so weird looking down on him, towering over him really, but that was Steve’s fault for resisting the platform boots. Curt Wild had worn super sexy platforms in ‘Velvet Goldmine’, and Ewan McGregor had _owned_ that shit, but if Steve only wanted to rock the tight black leather pants and stand there while Bucky smeared way too much honey all over his chest, well, that was one-hundred percent cool too… because _mother fucking_ _honey!_ They’d earned extra hilarious points by accidentally getting a fuck ton of honey and glitter all over Steve’s cast, but the thing was supposed to come off next week anyway, so who fucking cares? Steve looked hot. Hotter than hot. Hot stuff! Steve was _fire!_

Hundreds of bodies filled the space around them as they got pushed towards the center of the dance floor, and Bucky instantly felt safe. Maybe it was the compression? The waves of limbs bumping and jostling and forcing the two of them closer together? He didn’t know, and he didn’t fucking care. Resting his hands on Steve’s sticky shoulders, Bucky just  _ listened _ . 

The music was totally different than Tony’s ‘Wonderland’ party. Alice and The Mad Hatter weren’t grinding their naughty bits together to trap in the Queen’s rose garden, and the DJ wasn’t front and center with big boobed girls in white rabbit costumes flanking him. Not that there was anything  _ wrong _ with big boobed bunny girls (Bucky had a healthy appreciation for boobies  _ and _ the girls attached to them), but the way this DJ was set up under a low tent in the far corner, a single purple light casting his exaggerated shadow on the wall, was Lo-Fi mystery van cool. Serious Scooby-Doo vibes. And, god, Bucky didn’t even know where to start with what the monster in the headphones was doing with those turntables! The mix was a witches’ brew of heavy hip hop...was that Tyler the Creator? No fucking way!...stirred together with deep house and chicken feet. But there was something else dragging below the bass line...a crocodile lurking on the bottom of the murky swamp...waiting. Tipping his head towards Steve, Bucky dropped his center of gravity and stuck his hands into the green slime, trying to feel what was hiding beneath the surface. 

  
_ “Dude, you’ve gotta hear this! Dan, the new guy at the record store, hooked me up with a bunch of this old school industrial shit on vinyl, and it’s crazy! This band’s actually called ‘Skinny Puppy’!” Clint was fucking around with his mom’s record player, shoving Ruffles in his mouth, and smoking a joint all at the same time. _

_ Bucky was staring at his ass. _

  
Yanking his hands out of the slime before the crocodile could tear his arms clean off, Bucky wrapped his slippery hands around Steve’s neck. Fuck. Not going there. Stick to the facts: DJ Shaggy had thrown Tyler the Creator and his goblin into his cauldron, stirred in a heaping spoonful of house, then had tossed in a fuck load of skinny puppies to add flavor. Bucky’d never heard anything like it, and it was fucking glorious! It felt like DJ Fred’s headphones were plugged directly into the base of Bucky’s skull, and he was composing a symphony that perfectly matched Bucky’s fucked up brainwaves. Judging by the way Steve’s fingers were digging into Bucky’s hips as he rolled their bodies together, Bucky was gonna declare Stevie a fan of DJ Velma’s witches’ brew too.  

Damn, Tony was the shit! Scratch  _ all _ the hate stuff off the chalkboard because it was official: Bucky totally and completely, one-hundred-percent  _ loved _ Tony Stark, and he wanted to hug him and squeeze him like a tiny, snarky ferret. Bucky snorted because Tony as a ferret was fucking hilarious and his rodent party was the shit! The naked fat cherub statues stuck in the recesses in the walls all around the room? The shit! The  _ two _ chicks and  _ one _ dude dressed up as Lady Gaga’s pagan witch from Roanoke serving up drinks behind the bar? The shit! The floor to ceiling windows overlooking the street that were covered with rows and rows of orange twinkle lights? The shit! The giant maze of hay bales taking up a third of the room? Damn...Bucky couldn’t even process that! A fucking  _ maze  _ in a fucking _ ballroom! _ That was the  _ super shit! _ And in the middle of it all was a big Moroccan style tent (see, Bucky did pay attention in school!) with billowy black curtains hanging from the corners and orange lanterns swinging from the roof. It was filled with french maids, naughty nurses, non-sparkly vampires, and some guy in a hot dog costume who obviously hadn’t gotten the ‘elaborate’ costume message, and they were all lounging on embroidered pillows with richly colored drinks in their hands! All of it was... the... shit!

Suddenly, Steve’s tongue snuck under the edge of the deep V in Bucky’s costume (which, bless his heart, Roman had cut obscenely low to achieve ultimate glam mystique) and licked a long line down Bucky’s abs. If Steve dropped to his knees and clutched Bucky’s silver thighs, smashing his mouth open against Bucky’s crotch, he’d  _ become _ Curt Wild, and Bucky could  _ be _ Brian Slade...not that he wasn’t well on his way already. After all, was Bucky swallowing a fuck ton of Tic Tacs all that different from snorting lines of coke off a sleeping groupie’s ass?   

Somebody breezed past with a tray of shots just as Steve kissed his belly button, and Bucky shot a hand out to stop them. Snatching one without looking to see what it was, Bucky slammed it, threw the glass back on the tray, and grabbed two more.

“Thank you for your service,” Bucky snarled, tipping his head in the faceless person’s direction. “My demons appreciate you.”

A beautiful boy painted in the image of that star, destined to swallow all the things that guaranteed his failure. Bucky wrapped his hand behind Steve’s neck and dragged him upwards, because there was no need for both of them to fall from the sky.

“Here, baby,” Bucky said, placing the ruby red shot in the hero’s hand. “Let’s toast to you, Stevie. Three cheers for making me look beautiful.”

Steve clinked their tiny glasses together and threw the monster a megawatt smile, declaring, “You’re always beautiful, Buck,” before tossing back the alcohol.

“No, I’m not,” Bucky mumbled, low enough that Steve wouldn’t catch it. When he added the shot to the fun potion brewing in his bloodstream, Bucky knew that there wasn’t much of him left to devour. All his parts were digesting in the crocodile’s belly, dissolving in stomach acid, crushed fruit, and pills pills pills, transforming him into the monster that the swamp was gonna shit out the other end.    

When Bucky took a few steps to get rid of the shot glasses, he caught sight of his reflection in the giant windows, and he swore that DJ Daphne scratched his needle long and hard against the record, making the beat stutter and grind. 

He studied the way each long red feather was perfectly arching over his shoulders and how his body towered over the crowd...the huge viking mohawk that Natasha’d created made his form stretch well past seven-feet. A shiver ran up his spine as it dawned on him; Bucky wasn’t here. For all the times that he’d pretended to be the gorgeous man in his teenage jerk off poster, sensually licking his tongue into Curt Wild’s wet mouth, he’d never thought that he could  _ really _ look like that...that he could  _ be _ that. But here he was, an alien from another planet, the Starboy that Steve had always wanted, someone beautiful who smelled like the mesmerizing rings of Saturn, not puke and apples. Bucky wanted to cry, but the reflection in the glass had no such desire...

“Hey, Buck. You with me?” Steve’s arms were snaked around his waist and the tray of shots was long gone. “You’ve only had two drinks, don’t tell me you’re feeling it already?”

“Steve. God, you’re so fucking sexy.” Pushing him backwards, the Starboy caught Steve by the belt. “You’re so much better than the poster that Bucky sprayed with come on dark, lonely nights, and so much better than the movie (sorry Ewan). Just look at all your muscles and the big bulge of your cock in those leather pants (sorry again Ewan).” He licked his lips before releasing his glittering fingers to let Steve fall against the writhing bodies.

“Baby, are you okay?”

His eyes zoomed in on Steve’s long legs and his mouth watered. “You’re Iggy Pop, _and_ Lou Reed, _and_ Ewan McGregor, _and_ Mick Jagger, _and_ Jake Bass all shoved into a queer blender to make something bigger, stronger, faster, and more fucking beautiful than I’ve ever seen. I wanna eat you alive.” 

Chuckling, Steve moved back into Bucky’s space and wrapped his non-fucked-up arm around his waist. “Mmm, you know I’ll do anything for you, sweetheart. And that includes leather pants and letting you eat whatever you want.”

“I wanna eat your ass.”

“Woah, I wasn’t being that specific. Jeez, Buck, way to put that right out on the table.”

“Actually, I put it right out on the dance floor.”

Steve looked shell shocked, and the Starboy rocked his head back and forth until the bones in his neck cracked in rapid succession. 

“I like us better eye to eye,” Steve whispered into the shell of Bucky’s ear. “From now on, how about we only have you wear those boots when you’re lying down?”

Fuck.

Bucky took inventory. Still dancing. Steve looked sweaty. His hair was all messed up. Huge hickey on his neck. Biggie Smalls with Marilyn Manson?...no way, that was crazy...holy shit...the DJ was actually mixing in the mother fucking ‘Dope Show’! And yeah, he was definitely eye to eye with Steve. Where the fuck were his boots!?

“So, finish the story.”

“Story?”

“You said this was your first couples costume, unless you counted last year...but then you latched onto my neck and tried to suck the life out of me.” Steve laughed, but it was hard for Bucky to see the humor. 

The fifth rule of pretending that you _aren’t_ a wacko: when you stop in the middle of a story to suck out your innocent boyfriend’s soul through his carotid artery, try to recover as quickly as possible.

“Um...yeah, this is my first couples costume, unless you count last year when I tricked Clint into dressing as Kurt Cobain.” 

Steve nodded. So far so good, so Bucky kept on going. “I promised Clint that I was gonna wear a flight attendant uniform and sport a moustache like ‘Learn to Fly’ Dave Grohl, but I totally showed up dressed as Courtney Love instead; lipstick, fishnets, the whole grunge princess persona. I even brought my guitar.”

There was no doubt that Steve wouldn’t be laughing so hard if Bucky finished the joke, because (drum roll please) the punchline went like this: That was the first time Clint gave me an  _ actual _ blow job, so I must’ve looked pretty hot in my pink baby doll dress. 

Fucking hilarious. But that bullshit didn’t gonna count because Clint Stupid Hair Barton had never been his  _ boyfriend _ , and Steve  _ was _ Bucky’s real  _ live-in _ boyfriend, so  _ this _ was his first couples costume, dammit, and despite the skips in the record, it was  _ killer! _

“I bet he was pissed,” Steve murmured, pulling Bucky towards him as the beat got heavier.

_          ...Clint’s lips opening tentatively as Bucky lifted the hem of his pink dress and slid his cock inside a mouth for the first time... _

“Yeah,” Bucky moaned, because Steve’s hands were squeezing his ass. “Super pissed.”

Bucky liked  _ Steve’s _ hands. Bucky liked  _ Steve’s _ mouth. Bucky liked  _ Steve’s _ strong arms. Bucky could get used to it here...floating on a submarine through the noise...and he allowed a wide smile to spread across his face as he drifted deeper into a happy place full of clapping hands and colorful tides, because Steve...Steve was good. Even with tight black leather squeezing his ass and honey and glitter sticking them together in the dirtiest of ways, Steve’s sweet face remained innocent. Pierce’s marks were almost healed, the scars fading away to nothing, and Steve looked whole and pure...ready to face the world. There was no way that Bucky was going to let the monster’s claws take that away from him.

Letting his dick find Steve’s thigh, Bucky sank further into Steve as they moved together, two lovers blending into a crowd. Scanning the sea of faces over Steve’s shoulder, Bucky didn’t recognize a single one. Clowns, nerds, at least ten Elevens, one waffle, zombies, demons, slutty nuns, and a handsome Droog dressed in white with his black bowler hat pulled low over the eye where Fillmore the spider had spun his web. Nameless faces hiding in plain sight, just like Bucky. Kindred spirits. 

Tony’d promised that he was gonna pull in a whole new crowd; college kids from MIT, Chloe’s friends, who supposedly encompassed NYC’s entire young queer community, and Tony’s new boyfriend’s friends, whoever he was, and whoever they were. New friends for the leftovers; the inner circle of Eaton’s non-assholes. It was a paradise full of masks and music, and, as Bucky sucked Steve’s nipple into his mouth before catching it a little between his teeth, he knew that he never wanted to leave.

“Stevie, do you remember the first time we kissed?”

“You mean like this?” 

The kiss was deep and dirty, all tongue and heat, and Bucky felt dizzy with it. The shit eating grin plastered across Steve’s face when he pulled away proved that he knew his own power. 

“It was  _ nothing _ like that,” Bucky gasped.

“Hmm, let me try again then.” Two hands cupped Bucky’s neck, careful to avoid the feathers, and Steve’s mouth drifted across his lips with something tentative and tender, slow and warm. “How about that?”

“God, I love it when you kiss me that way, Stevie.” Bucky smiled. “It makes me feel new, shiny...pure.”

“You’ll always feel new to me, Buck.” A soft kiss on the nose and a fingertip running along his jaw. “And I’ll always love you like I did that first night.”

DJ Scooby mixed in something that made the entire floor rumble, and Bucky was hit with one undeniable thought:  _ You wouldn’t if you knew... _

Another kiss, a hand on the small of his back, a puff of air on his cheek. “I knew that I loved you that first night, even before I really knew you. I loved you the second I felt your hand on my thigh in the truck and our hands intertwined for the first time. I loved you when you dented your dad’s car in the garage and when you covered me in a mountain of frozen peas. I loved you when you blurted out that you wanted to suck my cock and when you dressed me in your fuzzy bunny slippers.” A nibble on the earlobe and a squeeze on the back of his neck. “I love you.”

Bucky’d had a reason for asking about the kiss in the first place. Something about innocence? He couldn’t remember. Why couldn’t he fucking remember!? He felt the tears building behind his makeup, so Bucky whispered, “I love you too,” and hugged Steve as tightly as he could. See, when you’re dancing in a place that feels happy and pure and you don’t know how long it’s gonna last, you can’t ruin it by thinking about the way tiny versions of Frank the Bunny had predicted the future while they’d hugged Steve Rogers’ feet. 

The beat slowed as Steve ground against him, just the tips of one hand controlling Bucky completely, telling him where to move, how to bend, what to do...why couldn’t Steve be in charge all the time? He was strong enough to keep the bad guys away...if Bucky’d told him...

In that moment, feeling himself slipping out of Steve’s grasp, Bucky wished that he had...

“Just because you look like somebody in real life doesn’t mean you can default to this ‘Intern’ shit every year, Skinner!”

That sounded like Daisy. Daisy!? What the fuck!? 

What were the rules about lost time? He couldn’t remember. Oh yeah, figuring out where the fuck he was! He was sitting. He was sitting in Morocco on one of the giant pillows with a drink in his hand that had an eyeball floating in it. A fucking eyeball!

“You could at least go as Dylan ‘Teen Wolf’ O’Brien!” Daisy giggled. She was across the tent and leaning against Peter. Daisy was a skeleton and her face was made of bones, Peter was the grim reaper, and Brock was lurking above them, poking at Daisy’s bone knee with a scythe. 

“Or Dylan ‘Maze Runner’ O’Brien,” Steve yelled, laughing behind Bucky. Okay. Just breathe. Steve’s leather knees were bracketing him and the black Chucks he’d borrowed from Sam were holding Bucky together.

“Or even Dylan ‘Deep Water Horizon’ O’Brien for christ’s sake!” Ezra was on his left. There was an eyeball in his drink too and he was dressed as a cop. Officer Donut didn’t like Bucky, and Bucky didn’t like Officer Donut’s fucking eyeballs!  

Skinner leaned over and kissed a surgeon on the lips...Lola...that was her name... before shouting, “How about if I just come as Dylan O’Brien next year!?” 

Everyone laughed because Skinner was funny...he was a funny guy... but Bucky was just trying to breathe. He barely managed three slow breaths before the eyeball rotated in the glass to stare deep into his fucked up soul. Slamming the drink, Bucky sucked the mother fucking spy into his mouth so it would stop looking at him! It tasted like a marshmallow, but Bucky knew better. As it squished and split between his teeth, Bucky growled until Brock disappeared to reveal Banner in an Einstein costume holding Peter’s scythe.

“A spoonful of sugar.”

“Hmm, what’d you say, sweetheart?” Steve set his chin on Bucky’s shoulder and squeezed his legs tighter. Starboy’s feathers had been crushed down against Bucky’s back and his beautiful boots were still missing. The blood leaking from Bucky’s missing toe was snaking its way towards Officer Donut’s thousand dollar sneakers.

Bucky laughed, because what the fuck else was he supposed to do? “I said, can you get me another drink?”

Out of nowhere, Tony skated up behind Steve...yes  _ skated _ ...because he was dressed as...sexy Gandalf in roller skates? And BAM, Bucky found himself with a ‘magic wand’ made of pixie sticks and silver pipe cleaners in one hand and a jello shot full of colorful worms in the other.

__ _  ...Even if his fingernails would always be torn and ragged, filled with heavy dirt and the remnants of worms, Bucky vowed then and there to protect Steve, no matter what the cost... _

“Ask, and ye shall receive!” Tony yelled. He was flanked by a kid with curly brown hair who was wearing silk pajamas and holding up a silver tray. “Concubine! I need more shots for my friends!”

Ezra spun around to face him, and, even under the silver aviators, Bucky could tell that his eyes were screaming ‘what the hell’? “Did you just say ‘concubine’? Like as in ‘whore’? How old is that kid!?”

“No, don’t be silly, Officer Poncherello. I just fucked up the word again. There are too many sexual C words to keep them all straight, especially because I’m already drunk. Cock, coochie, concubine, call boy, corn hole, calligraphy, cannibal... it’s continually confusing.”

“He’s a man-eating whore with fancy writing?” Peter snorted, which wasn’t typical grim reaper behavior. “That’s rich.”

“No,  _ I’m _ rich, and this perfectly legal eighteen-year-old boy is my  _ consort _ tonight, representing the House of Stark…” Tony tipped his wizard hat at Ezra, then gestured at the kid with some kind of disco arm roll or something.   

Tony was interrupted by almost falling flat on his face. “Sauron be damned, my wizard robe hath not been hemmed sufficiently for these shoes with wheels.”

Looking back past Steve’s glittering honey hair, Bucky stared at the kid. He had pretty brown hair and a unicorn horn pushing through the skin on his forehead. “Hey, unicorn boy,” Bucky slurred. “Can I get another one of those?” 

The worms from the shot crawled onto Bucky’s waiting hand as the unicorn stage whispered, “Don’t worry. Stark’s paying me fat cash to do this. I’m one of his lab assistants at MIT.”

          ... _ He hired the guy. Gave him five-hundred-dollars, a bag of coke, and told him which bedroom to take me to... _

“Mmm, Chloe, you are one fine woman for bringing all these Thin Mints to Girl Scout camp!” 

Sam. That was Sam, and this shit was getting fucking old! Sam was leaning against a marble column with his hand crammed into a box of cookies. He had a clock around his neck. Chloe was there. Strawberry blonde curls piled high on her head. Lots of side boob. Bucky blinked a few times because she was wearing an actual eight-year-old’s Brownie dress; the kind with the straps that was supposed to have a shirt under it, but there was no shirt...just straps and boobs and Thin Mints. A green box was handed to Scott, then Peggy...a circle was forming around him and he didn’t see Steve...just costumes and faces...a stranger with horns, Pepper with pigtails, Frank the Bunny, Natasha... 

“Bucky, you messed up your makeup...”

Chloe pushed a box into Bucky’s hands and smiled at him, but her teeth were too white, and it was hot in here, and Natasha was rubbing at his cheek, and there were too many people, and he didn’t like Thin Mints!

“Fuck!” Bucky yelled, turning quickly and running smack dab into...someone he didn’t know. Or maybe he did? Maybe they’d already met ten times and had shared a delightful meal of Kentucky Fried Chicken? Finger licking good. Did it really fucking matter at this point? Natasha was yelling something behind him, but Bucky ignored her in favor of the mystery man. 

“Please, for the love of god, tell me you have a tray of drinks hidden behind your back.”

“Sadly, I don’t. But it  _ certainly _ looks like you could use one.”

The stranger’s voice snapped Bucky into focus. Low. Musical. British.

“And, to be quite honest,” he continued, “after dealing with a roller skating wizard all night, I could use one as well.” The guy kinda smiled. Bucky’d probably call it more of a smirk. Damn, he was tall! It was music to Bucky’s ears when Tall British Guy said, “Shall we go to the bar?”

“Only if you get me something with zero eyeballs and a negative amount of worms.”

The guy chuckled, but, in the interest of mystery, didn’t say a word as he offered Bucky his arm.

While Bucky was stumbling alongside Mr. Mysterious, he noticed that he was wearing a tight white t-shirt with a pack of cigarettes rolled up in the sleeve, dark blue jeans that were pegged at the ankles, black hair slicked back… “You’re a greaser!”

“Most people know me as Loki,” he quipped, lifting his chin towards the most accurate version of creepy pagan Lady Gaga. “Two Johnnie Walker Blacks, on the rocks.”

“Oh,  _ you’re _ Tony’s boyfriend!”

Snickering, taller James Dean rested an elbow on the wooden bar and asked, “Now, who told you that?”

“Um...Tony?”

The guy... _ Loki _ ...smiled with his mouth closed then took a slow sip of the drink. “Of course, he did.”

Bucky was mega confused, and he still wasn’t wearing shoes. The floor was super sticky. Considering the circumstances, he decided to reply with the very simple, “Well, I’m Bucky.”

“I know who you are.”

That was curt... and a little weird. Bucky was good at weird. Matching Loki’s pose, he played with his smushed feathers and snarled, “I know all about you too, smart guy. Tony calls you his ‘LoLo Kitty’ and goes on and on about how Fat Elvis is gonna marry the two of you in Vegas, and Tony won’t shut up about your future brood of super snarky genius babies.”

“You’re drunk.”

“And getting drunker, thanks to you... _ kitty cat. _ ”

When the wormhole opened again, Bucky was dancing. God, he loved dancing. It made him feel alive. And the bass was so deep that he felt it exploding up through all nine toes; electric currents running up his shins, twisting inside his thighs and grounding him. Wrapping the fingers of his left hand tighter around the hair they were tangled in, Bucky dipped his jaw and bit into the soft skin of a narrow neck. Apples…

Snapping his head up, Bucky was momentarily blinded by the lights sweeping across the top of the maze. He was trapped in a tiny cube; a dead end made from hay bales, and Bucky’s makeup was smeared across TJ’s cheek; the orange paint and silver glitter that was supposed to be something special with Steve was now fucked up beyond all recognition and staining the thin lips hovering inches from his. TJ’s thin body was riding Bucky’s thigh as the heavy industrial mixed with something thick...Kendrick Lamar…’Swimming Pools’...Pour. Drank. Head shot. Drank. Sit down. Drank. Stand up. Drank. Pass out...Donnie Darko was dressed in all black: tight t-shirt, tight jeans, and a simple black mask covering his eyes...but Bucky knew all about the rib cage he was hiding underneath...  

Bucky tried to make his hands let go of Donnie’s hips, whispering, “I shouldn’t be here.”

“Neither of us should.”

Forward pressure and someone else’s hands cupping TJ’s ass...fuck. Fuck!

Bucky finally let go, and his back smashed against the hay bales, making the whole wall wobble as laughter rose out of the maze behind him. Passed out. Faded. Drank. Drank. Drank...TJ’s hands crept up Bucky’s neck as defeat crawled out of the hay, wrapping it’s spider arms around him before TJ caught his face between eight black fingers and softly kissed Bucky’s cheek.

Breathing in TJ’s apple hair, Bucky whispered, “I didn’t choose this.”

“Neither did I.”

TJ ran his tongue across Bucky’s lower lip before coaxing his mouth open and reaching inside to place something on his tongue. Then, leaning back against the hay bales, TJ did the same. Mirror images. Boys in matching masks. Doppelgängers. The weak hiding in a maze made for children. There was nothing left to do except swallow down the pill with the sugary drink TJ handed him out of nowhere…

“Bucky, why do your eyes look like buttons?” Steve asked. “They look like Little Panda’s eyes.”

Craning his neck, there was no sign of Donnie, and Bucky found himself straddling Steve in the middle of the tent. There were faces all around them. One look told Bucky that Steve was wasted...not as wasted as Bucky was,  _ obviously _ ...but since his stomach was covered in pools of honey, gold, salt, and chewed up limes, Steve had tasted his fair share of something.

_          ...I’ve got him. Don’t worry... _

It’s hard to hold on to someone when your hands are dripping.

“Do it, Bucky!”

Tony wasn’t wearing his wizard hat anymore. In fact, he was sprawled out on a giant bean bag in nothing but white short shorts and roller skates with a glass of wine in one hand and a bunch of grapes in the other. He was talking very, very, very fast. 

“I’ve gotta see you suck one more body shot off Steve’s infamous Adonis abs in order to satiate my twisted desires for the rest of my privileged life.” Tony cackled and adjusted his balls; from Bucky’s vantage point there was a real danger that they were gonna fall out the bottom. “Wait, wait, wait. That was a lie! I’m a dirty dirty liar with my short shorts on fire! I’ll never be satiated! I could watch this gay magnificence every day for eternity. How the fuck did I not know that I was queer!? For a genius, I sure was stupid.”

Bucky was having a hard time focusing on anything except the way Tony’s balls were making their great escape.

“It’s like we’re in the middle of an ancient Roman orgy! Caligula himself would be jealous if he knew about these shenanigans. I mean, nobody’s fucking their sister, but still... are you people seeing this!? Imagine these two in the bedroom! I’d pay to see that! Actually, I’d pay to join in, a nice little piece of bologna sandwiched between two thick slices of Wonder Bread, because I have no shame and my new boyfriend is a very confident man. Consort! Fetch me my checkbook! And a pen! Don’t forget my fountain pen or I can’t give Wonder Bucky his check. God, I still can’t believe that only a month ago Steve thought he liked pussy!” Tony snorted, and Bucky heard the slap before he even saw Peggy pull her hand back. The snakes on her head hissed over the thick music, and the slap left a trail of a hundred arms.

Tony’s cackling came at Bucky from all sides, and there were five of him on his bean bag throne, but it was the one in the center who tipped his chin defiantly up at Medusa and cooed, “Oh, darling. Don’t be jealous. You know you’re my very favorite spicy cherry. Now sit down on my lap and let’s watch these stunningly wasted boys do another shot. Or, shall I sit on yours? I haven’t tried pegging yet, Peggy. Ladies choice.”

“I’ll do no such thing!” she snapped, spinning away so the hem of her long green dress brushed over Steve’s golden face. “And Steven Grant Rogers! What’s wrong with you!? I swear, you used to have  _ some _ class…” Bucky didn’t hear the rest as Medusa disappeared, but she was right...

A golden face laying on a tapestry, one that  _ should _ be surrounded by a halo but was drowning in Bucky’s spilled beer and rotten fruit instead. It was all wrong. “Stevie, you don’t belong here with us. You should get up.”

“Hard to do when I’ve got someone as beautiful as you on top of me.”

Bucky started to push up on hands and knees, noticing the sound the sequins made as they slid over the leather. Noticing the heavy belt buckle…

_...I might have gone easy on you before, cupcake...treated this ass real nice...but not anymore... _

“Set ‘em up again, Zombie Boy. Let’s get this sexy show on the road ‘cause it’s almost time for me to lick some salt off my pussy cat, who, by the way, is the proud owner of a very nice dick! Line up the citrus and somebody find my cat! Cannibal Consort! I told you to keep track of my boyfriend! He doesn’t have a chip yet and he’s not supposed to go outside!”

_  ...a cat howling in a dark alley as the metal spaceship ground along the wall…   _

“I’m not your boyfriend, and I’m most certainly not a cat.” 

It was the guy who’d given Bucky something ‘on the rocks’. He’d never had anything ‘on the rocks’ before. He’d felt fancy, like he should’ve been smoking a cigar.

The music had changed to something dark and fast...Bucky didn’t recognize it...industrial, like Nine Inch Nails...but not. Air raid sirens bouncing off thunderclouds as the bombs rained down, the sloshing of boots stuck in the mud, the explosion of rivets torn from their holes.

Bucky looked up at whatever his name was...JLo Kitty...and his face was vibrating. He  _ did _ look like a cat; a smart one, with black whiskers and everything. Better than his sister’s costume without a costume at all. Fuzzy black edges and bright green eyes that would shine back at you in a dark alley. 

“Are you alright?”

Bucky didn’t know who was asking and he didn’t care. Reaching for Tony’s cat, he slurred, “Want me to scratch behind your ears? I bet you’d purr real pretty for me.”

The cat’s eyes had halos around them...green ones...and he wanted to run his tongue along the lids. Bucky blinked, then blinked again as he felt Steve’s hand running down the center of his chest.

“Stevie,” Bucky smiled, “there you are.”

“I don’t think he’s alright.”

“Stop being such a downer. Steve will put him to bed in a second, won’t ya, Cap?”

Hands slid around Bucky’s waist and kneaded into his skin. “Mmm,” Steve mumbled from far away, “one more shot and we’re done. I promise.”

“Steve, we need to talk! Right now.”

Oh, Daisy. She was a pretty kitty too with her black hair and all her lunch boxes. Maybe she’d stuffed them full of tuna fish and dead birds for supper?

The voices overlapped into one annoying mass, and Bucky barely registered any of them. He only wanted to concentrate on the trails of energy that Steve’s hands were dragging over his happy trail, but  _ fucking Brock _ was leaning against the pole in the back corner of the tent. The bastard was hiding where it was the darkest; where the black curtain would keep him partially hidden...where webs couldn’t be swept away by pesky brooms. Officer Donut must have led him here. Fucking spy! Brock had a baseball hat pulled low over his beady eyes and was wearing a black bomber jacket with the collar pulled up high. Great costume mother fucker! Even hallucinations should have to wear ‘elaborate’ costumes to gain admission! The white lights swooping back and forth across his snarling features looked like dirty snow reflecting off a black pond. Fuck, Bucky was so sick of this shit!

But Steve’s hand felt so good, liquid dissolving the dirt caked in his chest hair, and Bucky was  _ so fucking horny _ …

“Pour the shot,” Bucky hissed, grabbing a throw pillow and tearing it open at the seam. Digging out handful of feathers from the gooey center, Starboy leaned back and pretended to jack himself as he flung the white puffs all over Steve’s lime covered chest; just like Curt Wild sprayed gold glitter out of his cock on stage. Faceless people were whooping and screaming all around them, but Bucky didn’t care, none of it was real. Or maybe it was? Cats with long black legs howling in an alley, ravens leading Steve in the wrong direction, butterflies sucked into a current of happiness until someone touched their wings, sharp teeth gnawing and nibbling at the soft parts under warm sheets, boys in blue pea coats writhing underneath him...fucking blueberries.

When Starboy bent over to suck the tequila out of Steve’s belly button, he licked and swirled his tongue until he’d devoured every last drop, not caring if there was glitter and gold stuck between the monster’s razor sharp teeth when he was done.

“...happy to see you got all dolled up for me. You looked real pretty slutting it up in front of all those people.”

Bucky wanted water. It felt like he hadn’t drank anything for a year, and his arm hurt. “I’m thirsty.”

“Oh, look at the little faggot, finally admitting what he wants…”

The music was quieter. Pounding from far away. Above him. Wait. Where the fuck was he? Pushing himself upright off the floor, Bucky cried out when his arm crumpled beneath him.

“Yeah, about that. You took a little tumble down the steps, sweetheart. Looks like you and Rogers are gonna end up with a matching set.”

Rolling to his other side, Bucky laughed as rows and rows of bottles came into focus. He was in some sort of wine cellar, barefoot in a sequined jumpsuit, fucked up beyond belief, and  _ now _ was the time that his brain decided to feature Brock Rumlow in a starring role. Whatever TJ had given Bucky, whatever wonderful escape he’d placed on Bucky’s waiting tongue, it was enough to make Bucky tell his delusion to fuck right off.

“Whatever, asshole. Call me anything you fucking want. You’ll go away soon enough. Watch, I’ll count. 28 days...6 hours...42 minutes...twelve seconds...eleven, ten, nine...”

Heavy footsteps rattled the wooden boards beneath Bucky’s head as he focused on the single light hanging from an iron fixture above him. Maybe this was Howard Stark’s secret sex dungeon? His special spot where he got all drunk and feisty with the whips and chains hidden behind the racks of undisturbed wine? Bucky wished that he was still sucking tequila out of Steve’s tummy button...no...belly button. Chuckling, he got drawn in by the glowing light...it was like the harvest moon, pulsating in the witching hour along with the distant rumble.

_...I love you to the moon and back... _

Maybe if Bucky moved really slow...big one-hundred-year-old turtle slow...or tortoise slow (which ones were the big ones?)...he could reach one of the bottles? Why not? He was already wasted and trapped in a basement with a homophobic hallucination that wouldn’t shut up. Might as well top off the tank with a thousand dollar bottle of wine! Not that he had a corkscrew. Fuck. He was so goddamn thirsty!

“I told ya I was comin’ back for you.” Brock kneeled at Bucky’s bare feet and sneered. His hallucination needed to shave.

“Oh my god, give it a fucking rest.” Bucky tried kicking out at him but it’s hard making contact with nothing. “Are you here to bite off another toe? Go ahead, eat up. See if I fucking care.”  

Bucky dragged his fingers across the wooden boards, trying to convince a splinter to climb into his skin. Maybe five splinters? Or a big one jammed under the nail at the perfect angle? 

Fun fact: David Bowie had two different sized pupils, but since his fans had only known the lopsided version, nobody knew for sure if one of the pupils was too big, or the other one was too small. Maybe Bucky was so crazy that nobody could tell anymore? Maybe that’s why Steve had thought everything was peachy keen and thought it was a killer idea to do a bazillion body shots? The floor under his ear creaked, and Bucky felt the old nails flexing from the weight. How much does a ghost weigh? 

“Jesus, you’re  _ really _ fucked up. Even worse than last time. I know you’ve been hangin’ out with my little bitch, but  _ damn _ .” Brock snapped his fingers a few times, like he was offended that Bucky didn’t give a shit. Such a sensitive illusion! “I saw you sneak into that maze with him, and believe me when I tell ya...if you think TJ’s drugs are good, his ass is even better. It’s the tightest thing I’ve ever fucked. Even after two years of bending over and takin’ it every time I snapped my fingers, his ass still squeezes my dick like the first time I jammed it in.”

Bucky laughed and took a peek at his shoulder. It was out of socket. It made him look less like David Bowie, which was a shame. His costume had been perfect. He and Steve had looked perfect together, and Bucky’d gone and fucked it up again. Fucked it up. You know who else has fucked up pupils? Marilyn Manson. Self inflicted, but no less cool. Bucky could hear Marilyn’s deep wail floating down the stairs…beautiful people...and the nails danced in their holes as the splinters hit their mark. Bucky pushed his hips towards the ceiling and cackled as he imagined Marilyn riding his dick; a coupling of mismatched eyes. 

“What are you laughing at, you piece of shit!?” Brock slapped Bucky’s foot...and it... 

_ It hurt! _

Even though he opened his mouth to scream, nothing came out as he stared at Brock’s fingers, clenching and unclenching into fists. 

_...28 days...6 hours...42 minutes...twelve seconds... _

“I bet Rogers blew your ass out day one. I’ve seen his monster dick. But that’s okay, pretty boy. Don’t you worry. I know how to handle a size whore like you.” Nodding at a black backpack in the corner, the ghost sneered. “I brought toys.”

“A spoonful of sugar helps the medicine go down…” Bucky slurred, digging his fingernails into the wood. “Go away...go away...go away…”

Fingers wrapped around his wrist, not the ones he wanted...not the ones he  _ needed _ ...not  _ Steve’s _ ...and suddenly Bucky was yanked sideways across the floor by his dislocated arm; Starboy’s feathers ripping off and leaving a trail of red until a coiled weight that reeked of alcohol, cigarettes, and putrid aftershave dropped down on top of him. 

The ghost was heavy. 

A fist brutally smashed across his cheek, and Bucky bit his tongue, blood filling his mouth as the very real Brock Rumlow pinned him down and pressed the barrel of a gun between his eyes.

“Time to play, cupcake.”

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone for sticking with me on this story, and for all your amazing comments and kudos. I LOVE LOVE LOVE talking about these sad, goofy, sexy, screwed up boys, so hit me up! Let’s chat! Also, answer this chapter’s trivia questions in the comments and I’ll send you virtual goodies & mad respect!
> 
> TRIVIA  
> 1\. When Bucky is trying to get Steve’s attention in the bedroom, he plays “Nancy Boy” by the band Placebo. Any idea why this is such an important song to me personally?  
> 2\. When Bucky says, “Me and my Misfit Crüe can sashay right up to the doorman in our pink zebra banana hammocks, proudly present our ID’s, and waltz into the spotlight singing ‘Shout at the Devil’,” I’m referencing a specific band AND one of their videos in particular. Bonus points if you know both.  
> 3\. What band and song is this line quoting? “Bucky needed lots of Batman sound effects for this gift giving presentation because he was the best boyfriend ever. Like ever, ever! Forever, ever? Ever ever? Yes, Andre 3000, ‘Forever, ever’.”
> 
> MOOD MUSIC: [JessieLucidYouTube](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLbGnycMfOsiAHiTcMXeeVb9y0B0kZXXZ8)
> 
> CLINT POV  
> *Sufjan Stevens- Visions of Gideon *Side note: ‘Call Me By Your Name’ destroyed me in the best way possible. I highly recommend the film.  
> *Ursine Vulpine- Wicked Game (feat. Annaca)  
> *The Naked and Famous- No Way (Bassnectar remix). *This was my song for the Clint/Bucky flashback.  
> *Sufjan Stevens- All the Trees of the Field Will Clap Their Hands  
> *NF- Let You Down  
> *Nothing More- Still in Love  
> *Fiona Apple- Love Ridden *A taste of Natasha’s emotional state towards the end of the section. This specifically inspired her line, “I’m not your baby anymore.”  
> *Paramore- We Are Broken *This might be the theme for the entire story.  
> *Sufjan Stevens- Should Have Known Better
> 
> BUCKY POV (bedroom scene)  
> *M.I.A.- Bucky Done Gun  
> *Placebo- Nancy Boy  
> *Shudder To Think- The Ballad of Maxwell Demon (from the ‘Velvet Goldmine’ soundtrack)  
> *Lil Peep- Benz Truck  
> *Bassnectar- Butterfly (feat. Mimi Page)  
> *MISSIO- I Don’t Give a…(feat. Zeale)  
> *My Chemical Romance- I’m Not Okay (I Promise)
> 
> BUCKY POV (party scene)  
> *Bassnectar and Digital Ethos- Slather  
> *Tyler, The Creator- Yonkers  
> *Skinny Puppy- Optimissed  
> *MISSIO- Everybody Gets High  
> *Alison Wonderland- Happy Place  
> *Lil Peep- U Said  
> *Kendrick Lamar- Swimming Pools (Drank)  
> *Nine Inch Nails- The Lovers  
> *Ministry- Stigmata  
> *Marilyn Manson- SAY10 *I mention ‘Beautiful People’ in the scene, but only because 'SAY10' wasn’t out in 2016. This is what I used for the final few pages.
> 
> Find my Stucky Art on Instagram & Tumblr
> 
> [JessieLucidArt](https://www.instagram.com/jessielucidart/)
> 
> [lucidnancyboy](https://lucidnancyboy.tumblr.com/)
> 
> And I’m new to Twitter (JessieLucid) and need help. lol. I think I’m up to maybe ten followers. Very embarrassing.   
> Hugs for everyone. I know you need them.


	23. Gone- Day 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey Party People! Welcome to the next chapter! Thank you for sticking with this story and loving these characters as much as I do. It truly means the world to me! We're about 3/4 of the way through our journey. 
> 
> First order of business: My amazing, fantastic, perfect beta [Lorien](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Lorien/works) kicks ass! She cheers me on, makes fun of me when I write a 68 page chapter (and backs me up when I divide it in half), and spends hours and hours nitpicking every single word and comma (or lack of comma) in order to make ‘Misfits’ the very best it can possibly be. Please check out her gorgeous Stucky art and send her some love here [drjezdzanyart](https://drjezdzanyart.tumblr.com)
> 
> Second: A big shout out to BuckyGrl for suggesting that I recreate a very specific moment from ‘Velvet Goldmine’ in this chapter. Your wish is my command...
> 
> Getting inside Steve’s head requires a lot of musical inspiration. If you’d like to get the full soundtrack experience, check out my Chapter 23 playlist here [JessieLucidYouTube](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLbGnycMfOsiBpH-gxAX-FuPq-2F-Ovzg0)  
> The track listing is in the end notes (along with the scenes each song goes with).

 

_ _

 

_And I built a home_

_For you_

_For me._

_Until you disappeared_

_From me_

_From you._

_And now it’s time to live_

_Or turn to dust._

 

_-The Cinematic Orchestra “To Build a Home”_

 

**Day 44-  Monday, December 12th. 5:17 am**

The faster Steve swam, the harder the water molecules impacted his skin; their heaviness bending around his body unwillingly and raising the pressure inside his eardrums. In the forty-three days since Bucky had disappeared, the water was the only place that Steve felt something besides the never-ending grief that was breeding and thriving above the surface; its vines strangling Steve at every pulse point, its thorns ripping him to shreds. Switching to the butterfly, Steve crashed through the surface of the Eaton pool, desperately trying to catch a boy who wasn’t there.

It had taken three days... seventy-two hours for the safety of denial to morph into the harsh reality that Bucky wasn’t pulling an elaborate prank; waiting for the perfect moment to jump out of the closet wearing his pineapple pajama pants, his hair twisted into his famous tornado topknot, to yell ‘Gotcha, suckers!’ As each hour had crawled by, Steve had stared at his phone, waiting for a silly text with way too many pumpkin emojis to pop up, clinging to the hope that it was a joke, a trick, a bad dream, _anything_ but the truth...but it never came. There was just Bucky’s last message to haunt him with its levity: ‘Stop doin hmk dork. Time 2 put glitter on my cock’.  

For three days, Bucky’s baby blue Chucks hadn’t moved from where he’d absently dropped them in the middle of the upstairs hallway the night before Tony’s party; one perched at a funny angle on top of the other, their laces untied, with one dirty, wadded up sock shoved underneath...just one. Natasha and Mr. Barnes had walked around the shoes like a shrine, waiting, like Steve, for Bucky’s feet to retrieve them...but they hadn’t. For all Steve knew, they were still sitting outside Bucky’s room like a still-life, collecting dust as a family mourned.

It had taken every second of those first three overwhelming days for the horror to really sink in. _Nobody_ had seen Bucky leave, _nobody_ knew where he was, and _nobody_ had a fucking clue what the hell had happened; least of all _Steve._ That realization was why, on the third day, and every day since, Steve had set his alarm for 4:00 am so he could immerse himself in the cold water and swim. It wasn’t like he was sleeping anyway.

Seven days a week, Steve had settled into an oppressive morning routine that began with the agony of a half empty bed and ended with water. The alarm came first, the sound unbearable without Bucky’s endearing whining to go along with it. There weren’t any strands of wavy brown hair stuck to the trail of drool on Steve’s face, no long fingers wandering across his stomach to convince Steve to hit snooze, no dragon breath kisses lingering on his lips...there was only the annoying alarm and the repetition of actions without color. Shower without touching the handle marked ‘hot’. Get in the fucking Prius and pull out of the Barnes’ garage...or Tony’s garage...or inch his way out of the only cramped parking spot he’d been able to find, _three goddamn blocks_ away from his apartment, by 4:20. Pull up Nine Inch Nails ‘Every Day Is Exactly The Same’ and play it over and over on a never ending self-destructive loop. Hit a Starbucks’ drive-through and place the same order (Grande Dark Roast, black, Venti Salted Caramel Frappuccino, extra whip). Drive to Eaton during the week, or the Brooklyn YMCA on the weekends, imagining Bucky’s polar bear and peppermint legs propped up on the dashboard while he obnoxiously sang ‘Firework’ and slurped down his favorite Frapp. On his worst days, Steve stretched his arm across the center console and pretended he was squeezing Bucky’s hand. Today had been one of those days. After he’d pulled into the Eaton parking garage, Steve had held on longer than usual, rubbing slow circles around invisible knuckles before slamming the car door and leaving another untouched Frappuccino in the cup holder to melt.

How many laps had he swam already? Twenty? Fifty? A thousand? Steve didn’t give a fuck. He just kept moving his arms, kicking his feet, pushing harder, faster, until his body hurt as much as his heart. Switching to the backstroke, Steve watched the ceiling fly by as all the dangerous things Frank had taught him over chicken wings and beer last night ran through his mind; wrong things that felt right, and the weight that Frank had placed in Steve’s hand _finally_ making it feel like he was doing something that could actually bring Bucky home!

Before today, Monday had been the same as Tuesday, Friday, Wednesday...switch the order, run them in reverse...there wasn’t any real difference. When Steve woke up, Bucky was gone. When Steve went to sleep, Bucky was gone. None of the things that Steve had done in between flipping his sign to open, then flipping it back to closed, had done a damn thing to change that. Had he grown desperate? Of course, he had! Was he being reckless? You bet your ass he was! Did he care? Not even a little bit.

This morning, like every other morning, Steve had gotten his ass wet sitting on Eaton’s front steps, listening to the city wake up while waiting for Dale, the janitor, to unlock the double doors at 5:00. Word that Bucky was missing had spread like wildfire after the party; gossip about Steve’s failures, conspiracy theories, whispers behind his back, hugs that felt undeserved, tears that Steve felt unqualified to comfort...there were as many emotions as there were opinions. But one thing was for sure. _Everyone_ felt _something_ when they looked at Steve. Anger, sympathy, disgust, sadness, disappointment, hatred...take your pick. Dale, with his thick Jersey accent, had chosen pity.

Steve had pounded on the glass doors on the third day to get Dale’s attention, and he’d simply plopped his mop back in the bucket, flipped his baseball hat backwards, unclipped his huge ring of keys from his belt, and had held open the door open as he’d grumbled, ‘you look like shit’. Steve hadn’t deserved his pity, he _still_ didn’t. Not that it mattered. Whatever it took for people to open the locks.

From there, Steve’s routine diverged in one of two directions.

Option one: Sit cross-legged in the exact same spot where a beautiful boy, wrapped in a pale blue suit, had collapsed in a heap next to the pool, and remember all the ways Steve had failed Bucky after that fucking dance. The remnants of Rumlow’s handprint staining Bucky’s cheek. The jagged scratches running across the crotch of his pants. Bucky’s head rolling backwards when TJ had helped Steve get him up off the floor. The way his Duckie shoes had dragged and squeaked as they’d hauled him down the hallway to the car. Mistake after mistake, each one more brutally evident in hindsight. Most days Steve would spend ten minutes hating himself as he traced the intersecting lines of grout between the tiles, pressing his index finger hard enough to make it bleed as tears streamed down his face. That was option one.

Option two: Sit on the end of the bleachers, in the exact same spot he’d occupied after Bucky’s first practice with the team, thinking about how nervous Bucky’d looked after he’d kicked everyone’s asses and Fury had been ripping the team to shreds. The butterfly surprise in Steve’s stomach when he’d snuck a glance down the row of naked legs, noticing the sharpness of Bucky’s jaw for the first time; the artistry of Bucky’s profile exposed when his shiny brown hair had been pulled into a tight, low bun. Being completely mesmerized by the drops of water running down his calves to pool around his Greek toes. The first time Bucky’s honey gaze had shifted in Steve’s direction…the fluttering in Steve’s chest when they’d locked eyes. God, the bleachers were even worse than the tiles! The instant Steve would remember he might not get the chance to look into Bucky’s beautiful eyes again, he’d fucking lose it. Rage on a schedule. Explosions of guilt and pain like clockwork. At 5:10, Steve would kick the bleachers so fucking hard that the whole structure would rattle, throw his backpack at the wall, launch a shoe the entire length of the pool deck...something pointless and violent...day after day after day.

Coach Fury’s favorite chair had been today’s victim. With his anger more focused, Steve had flung it a whopping thirty feet through the air into the deep end of the pool. Since there was no lifeguard on duty, it was lying dead on the bottom. Stopping his forward motion abruptly and dropping beneath the surface, Steve stared at it through his goggles, a beautiful picture forming in his mind. After today, maybe a monster would be duct taped to that fucking chair; black hair floating in Steve’s whirlpool, blue lips powerless to say one more disgusting, cruel word, and bloated hands that would _never_ lay another finger on anyone! Steve liked that picture. It gave him fucking hope. Forgetting he was underwater, Steve smiled wide.

It wouldn’t be long before Fury and the rest of the team showed up for _actual_ practice at 6:00, but Steve didn’t swim for the chair. He’d deal with Fury’s lecture later. Kicking off the bottom, he pushed himself into another lap because that’s what he did. Seven days a week, Steve swam. First, with a waterlogged cast and another broken nose, then, later, with the crushing knowledge that Bucky’s disintegration had been his fault. Saturday and Sundays were the same; replace Eaton with the Brooklyn YMCA and switch out Dale for Raja. She was another compassionate janitor who told Steve that he looked like shit every time she unlocked the door. Seven days a week, every day since Bucky’d been gone.

Steve spotted the wall and strengthened his strokes, digging his arms deeper into the water to pick up speed before diving under at the last second to somersault into the turn. His obliques burned, and the familiar twinge in his left wrist was screaming at him to stop, but he pushed his muscles even harder, trying his damnedest to catch the boy in the next lane. In the water, Steve could almost _feel_ Bucky’s body displacing molecules of his own; the power of his muscles and the leanness of his torso keeping him just out of Steve’s reach as the sound of his kicks echoed across the ceiling. With every breath, Steve pushed through the pain to try to catch the tiniest glimpse of olive skin through the splashes of blue, the curve of Bucky’s deltoids, an inch of his forearm... _anything..._ but the ghost always pulled ahead; the water folding back into place like nothing had disturbed the surface. Day after day, Steve swam as fast as he could in a futile attempt to latch onto something tangible, to try to see what direction Bucky was swimming so he could figure out where else to fucking look! But not today…

Today was different.

When someone you love drops off the face of the Earth, there are two conflicting prayers. Steve had tried them both. He’d bruised his Catholic knees begging his mother’s God to end this nightmare, while begging Him in the same breath to do the opposite. Wherever Bucky was, whatever horrible thing had happened, the flood of red and blue sirens lighting up new faces that _might_ know _something_ , the hours answering the same questions over and over at the police station while holding styrofoam cups of shit coffee...it meant that there was still _hope._ And, dammit, Steve needed that! They _all_ did! If the lights and the coffee stopped, it meant the worst; that Bucky was _never_ coming back.

His hamstrings were starting to cramp, but Steve didn’t fucking care. He purposely dove deep and swam along the bottom, his skin in danger of ripping off if he sank down just one more inch, because he had to shut out the thought. He couldn’t go there. Bucky face down in the Hudson River, his hair entangled with garbage and leaves. Bucky shoved in a drainpipe, his body bending in all the wrong ways. Bucky buried beneath dirt and rocks, wrapped in plastic as the Charlie Brown snow fell above him. Goddammit! He hated his brain and all of its pictures! When the wall approached again, Steve threw his weight sideways at the last second, rolling into a ball and slamming full force into the side as his adrenaline raged. Every fucking day that had come before, no matter how fast he swam, he still couldn’t stop himself from thinking that Bucky could be dead…

No! He pushed off the bottom and surged upwards, bubbles exploding all around him as he filled his lungs to capacity, because today was different, dammit! The time for waiting for other people to find Bucky had come to a fucking end!

Today, Steve Rogers had a mission and a gun.

  
  


**Day One- Sunday, October 30. 2:57 am**

“Steve! Wake up!”

“Ow! What the hell?” Someone had just slapped him across the face, and it was _not_ nice. What kind of person hits a guy when he’s sneaking in a little Halloween nap at a very big Halloween party? Rude! Steve blinked, rubbing at his eyes because they stung like a bitch! Worse than his rudely slapped face! “I can’t see,” he slurred. “Am I blind?”

“Steve! I can’t find Bucky! I’ve been looking for an hour, nobody’s seen him! I _told_ you to keep an eye on him tonight! I _fucking told_ you, and you’re passed out in a bathtub!”

Trying his best to see with his outrageously painful eyeballs, Steve determined that, yes, his drunk ass _was_ indeed chillin’ in the enormous claw footed bathtub in the Stark master suite. An excellent choice for nap time, yes, but Tony was gonna be _pissed!_ _Super duper_ pissed. Speaking of which, Steve really had to pee. But the commotion in the room, and the blindness, and the slapping took precedence over draining his very full lizard.

Natasha was screaming at him, her arms flailing, and Steve quickly (and wisely) deduced that _she’d_ been the rude slapper. Fuck! That meant he couldn’t slap her back...even though he really, really wanted to...but Steve was a gentleman, and he didn’t hit the ladies. But seriously, why the hell was his left eye so blurry? He poked at the corner of his eye and came back with a finger full of gold glitter and goop.

“Natas…” Steve tried to push himself up, but the bathtub was a slippery bastard and he slid even further into its belly. Bathtub one, Steve zero. “Sorry, I tried to get up but I can’t,” he started, completely defeated by the porcelain. “I need one of those ‘old people’ buttons. How’s that infomercial go? I’ve fallen and I’m old? Ha, close enough. Hey, Natasha, tell my boo bear that I broke my hip, so we’re campin’ here for the night.” Snorting, he got a delicious image of Bucky’s long, sequined legs hangin’ over the side of the tub as he snoozed like a baby on top of Steve’s sticky chest, his eyelashes fluttering as he dreamt about the moons of Jupiter, the magic of David Bowie exploding across the universe as he flew past Europa on a giant sandworm.

Suddenly, Natasha lunged forward and twisted the handle, unleashing a torrent of cold water all over Steve’s face and chest! It was _so mean_ ... meaner than the meanest Mean Girl...and Steve screamed like a girly hyena (whatever that sounded like), because the water was flowing right into the waistband of his leather pants and pooling around his balls! Jesus christ! Could he slap her now? Could he slap her _and_ pull her into the tub to drench her kitty cat costume too!?

Steve scrambled to get up, but his sneakers slipped, and he nearly killed himself stumbling over the edge. The _only_ reason he miraculously caught himself on the white marble counter was pure, base instinct... instinct intact in spite of inebriation! Oh, damn... alliteration was fun! Woah, the room started tilting, so he gripped his Marble Savior even tighter, holding on for dear life as he leaned to the right, to the right, to the right, to the right, to the left, to the left, now kick. Oh, shit! Pain reverberated up his ankle from the impact, but if a song says kick, you’ve gotta kick...just maybe not when your toes are gonna smash into Howard Stark’s personal vanity. That hurt!  

“Stop singing, Steve!” somebody who was not Natasha yelled. “This is serious!”

He snorted again (that was his ‘go to’ drunk reaction) because Bucky _always_ shook his ass _way_ much more than the song told him to, and it was _awesome!_ Steve loved his little ass wiggling, and shimmying, and rolling backwards on his cock. Yeah, that last one...he needed to find his hot as fuck boyfriend so he could get some of that right about now!

Trying to get his bearings, Steve spun around ever...so...slowly, and, well, look at that, Sam was standin’ right there next to mean Natasha with his arms folded, lookin’ all judgy...and Tony was behind him, lookin’ all wasted (but trying not to look wasted)...and Tony’s British boyfriend was leaning against the door, lookin’ all British...and Frank was way in the back of the theater, lookin’ the same as he always did...like he was two seconds away from killin’ somebody with a baseball bat. Steve hoped it wasn’t him!

There was a pretty limited memory of taking the elevator upstairs to wash off the honey... Bucky’d said something about dirt getting stuck in it...or something...but Steve sure as hell wasn’t supposed to be sliding all over Howard Stark’s private bathroom in Sam’s soaking wet Chucks. Maybe that’s why the crowd of costumed Debbie Downers were all staring him down?

“Well, hello everyone…” Steve slurred. God, the room was spinning. “Why’d the party move to the master bath?”

When Natasha slapped him across the face this time, it was no fucking joke! There were tiny yellow stars and everything as Steve’s head snapped towards the mirror.

“It’s three in the morning!” she screamed. “Bucky’s _missing,_ and you’re a complete disaster! Just look at yourself!”

The person in the reflection wobbled as Steve leaned in to get a closer look at him...at _himself_ (mirror pronouns were confusing). Black smudges were radiating from his eyes in all directions like punk rock gone wrong, and there was glitter _everywhere_ ; his stomach, chest, arms, his fucking _armpits_ , and a huge glob in the corner of his horribly bloodshot eye. Could glitter blind you? There were no warning labels on the bottle. Reaching up to poke at his hair, Steve wasn’t sure what alien substance was making it clump together in weird spikes, and there _was_ all sorts of shit stuck to him...dirt...lint...a bottle cap digging its crimped edges into the skin next to his belly button, a long piece of toilet paper hanging off his shoulder. Jesus.

Before Steve could attempt emergency surgery to save his eyesight, a sinewy black cat, twisting with rage, appeared behind him in the mirror and hissed before she pounced. Natasha used both hands to knock Steve off balance towards the mosaic wall, and he hit hard enough that the little ceramic soap holders on the counter fell into the sinks and a wee little aloe plant fell off its shelf to its wee little aloe plant death. He was also pretty sure that he was about to puke, ‘cause the the room was doing this turning inside out, kaleidoscope on acid thing that was really fucking disorienting.

“Hey, woah,” Sam said, saving the day. “Natasha, take it easy.”

Sam was the best. Always such a calm motherfucker. That’s why he was the best team captain of the ship.

“You broke my mom’s plant!” Tony hollered, and Steve felt bad. He liked aloe. It had been a good little helper when Alexander had broken skin.

The need to make it up to Tony was real. Apologies were in order. Reaching his hands out to accept his handcuffs, he babbled, “I’m an aloe killer. Take me to aloe killer prison.”

“Oh, good god,” Loki scoffed, holding a surprisingly uneven Tony up by one armpit. He was only wearing one roller skate. The British Beefcake spoke again, addressing his captive non-British audience. “This is completely useless. We need to make a decision. _Now._ ”  

A towel hit Steve in the head, then another, then another, before Natasha growled, “Fuck you, Rogers!”

There was one last towel missile before Sam was suddenly dragging Natasha backwards towards the door and pointing aggressively at crooked Tony at the same time. Excellent multitasking! Who would’ve thought that Flavor Flav could be a voice of reason? Steve snorted (drunk default) because Flav’s giant clock necklace said 9:00, and it was _definitely_ not 9:00. He was _way_ too drunk for that!

See, at nine o’clock sharp, Steve had helped his Starboy climb out of the car in his galaxy covered boots, then had twirled him around in a slow circle, his sequins lighting up the sidewalk like a living, breathing disco ball. He’d guided him lovingly through two full rotations before Steve had leaned in to gently nibble Bucky’s earlobe, asking him in a soft, deep voice if he’d like to be Steve’s ‘main man’, just like Curt Wild had whispered in ‘Velvet Goldmine’. Bucky’s reaction had been perfect... _more_ than perfect. Grinning from ear to ear, he’d dragged two fingers across Steve’s lower lip, letting them touch the tip of Steve’s tongue before he’d whispered, ‘I’d love to be your main man, Stevie. Tonight and always’.

Nine o’clock, on the dot, Steve had bowed down to worship at Bucky’s glittering feet, knowing with absolute certainty that he was _the one_...that they’d be together forever...

Wait.

“You’re not helping, Natasha.” That was Frank. Why the fuck was Frank here, anyway? Why the hell was anyone here? Natasha made one more lunge for Steve, scary enough to make him flinch, before Castle herded her towards the door and grunted, “We need help. I’m calling,” before he legit picked her up under one arm and disappeared.

Steve was so confused, and Tony was givin’ him the evil eye. A mean mugger on one roller is still a mean mugger (on multiple levels). “Calling who?” Steve tried, his stomach rolling as he accidentally stepped on the broken plant, aloe squishing out like alien guts from underneath his shoe. “Sam, what the fuck’s goin’ on?”

“Your boy toy’s ruining my party with his Houdini act,” Tony yelled, trying Natasha’s towel throwing attack with a much less impactful washcloth. “That’s what’s going on! So blow your magic dog whistle, or whatever you do to keep him in the yard, and round up your Disco Puppy so I can get back to dancing with my grumpy tea kettle.”

Catching the cloth with one hand, Sam snapped, “Tony, shut up!” at the same time as Loki snarled, “Now isn’t the time!”

The double whammy was enough to keep Tony in the ‘no-skate’ down position, mean muggin’ from ground level.

“Steve, look at me. I’m not playing here.” Sam’s firm hands squeezing Steve’s upper arms, combined with the seriousness of the question, was what did it. The first alarm. The first rivet exploding inward like a bullet as sea water poured into the vessel. The first rung snapping on the ladder beneath Steve’s feet.

Sam’s brown eyes inched closer, their milk chocolate centers almost hypnotic as he lowered his voice. “I need you to think. When’s the last time you saw Bucky?”

White feathers falling around them like slow motion snowflakes, the fresh scent of citrus, Bucky pouring another shot into Steve’s bottomless belly button… A rush of adrenaline blasted through Steve’s body when the question finally clicked.

“Sam...” Steve gasped, his heart racing. “Sam...where’s Bucky?”

“Man, that’s what I’ve been trying to tell you…”

  
  


**Day 1- 5:22 am**    

Red and blue lights flashed up and down the block as Steve puked into Tony’s manicured hedges for the third time. The police cars had been flanking the front steps for over an hour and had painted everyone the wrong color as the crowd had thinned...switching a happy clown’s white makeup to Lizzy Borden red...overtaking a billowing ghost with the eeriness of underwater blue...and bathing Steve’s marshmallow vomit in patriotic strobe lights as it dripped off the branches. Another spasm twisted his insides, and Steve fell to his knees, the beige jacket someone had stupidly wrapped around his shoulders slipping sideways to land in his mess.  

It turns out that the most sobering sentence a person can hear is, ‘We can’t find him.’ From the second Sam’s words had found their way through the alcohol to light up Steve’s drunken synapses, his body had been trying to purge _everything_. Heave after heave, the puke kept spewing out of his mouth and nose above the devastating chorus of words…‘nobody’s seen him...we’ve looked everywhere...I have cancer...it’s been three hours, maybe more...yes, we’ve cleared the whole house...he’s gone’.

He’s gone...

“Steve, are you sober enough to talk to this officer now?” A hand on his shoulder, a voice he recognized, eyes that he didn’t want to face.

Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, Steve turned to face Mr. Barnes. He wasn’t wearing a coat.

“I threw up on your jacket,” he sobbed, stumbling backwards against the sharp bushes. “I’m sorry, I don’t…

“Son…” Bucky’s dad froze, the word dangling off his tongue, and Steve knew with absolute certainty that he wanted to reach out and snatch that word back. _Bucky_ was his son, and Steve was the person who’d lost him. “Steve,” he started again, gritting his teeth. “Peggy Carter and one of Tony’s friends are saying that Bucky seemed like he was more than just drunk. Do you know what he took?”

           _...your eyes look like buttons…_

The sound that escaped Steve’s lips was animalistic, a whimpering creature backed into the corner of a cave, knowing damn well that it had made all the wrong fucking turns. “I remember...oh god...I remember thinking his eyes looked funny. I...Mr. Barnes...I’m so sorry…”

“Funny how?” the police officer interrupted. He was tall, Steve had to look up at him, and the lights were flashing around the edges of his solid form. It made his face look black; Slender Man illuminated by red and blue as the sidewalk vibrated, threatening to crack open and swallow everyone whole. Steve made the mistake of looking down at his chest, covered in leftovers, and wished for the moment when Bucky’s beautiful body had been writhing on top of him as the fluffy white feathers had floated down all around them. He’d looked so beautiful...

Mr. Barnes’ hand flashed into Steve’s peripheral vision, snatching the coat off the ground and dragging a trail of puke across the cracks. “The officer asked you a question, Steve. Answer him!”

           _...Dragging his tongue up the center of Steve’s abs, Bucky altered his line when he reached Steve’s pecs, zig-zagging as he licked and sucked the tequila and lime juice off of every piece of chest hair before raising his chin to deliver his patented sex stare. His eyes opened wide as they met Steve’s..._

“Oh my god,” Steve gasped as realization set in; the naivety of drunkenness cured by the inevitable dawn. “Bucky’s eyes...they were _black._ ”

  


**Day 1- 12:19 pm**      

Police stations smelled funny; an acrid mixture of too much hand sanitizer, the lingering scent of bleach and burnt coffee, but stale, like the air hadn’t been circulated since 1972. Whatever the odor, the stench was perpetuating the puke train, and Steve had been exiled to the hallway with a metal garbage can without a bag.

Bucky’s dad and Natasha had been jammed into the tiny wood paneled office, arguing with a balding detective named Judd, Johnson, Jordan...something like that...for what seemed like days, while Steve vacillated between weeping, digging his fingernails into the meat of his palms, and shoving his head inside the fucking trash. He could hear every single line of canned bullshit that was spewing out of the hole beneath Detective Whatever’s very unfortunate moustache, and he was getting angrier and angrier with every condescending word. ‘Teenagers do this all the time. Are you sure your son wasn’t upset about something at school? Is it possible that your son used the party as a cover to run away from home?’

Smacking his head backwards against the glass window, Steve hoped that somebody, _anybody,_ would get the fucking hint! This was fucking useless! They should be _looking_ for him! It didn’t matter that there were over eight million people in this city, or that Bucky could be anywhere by now...Steve couldn’t sit here not knowing! Swallowing the huge lump in his throat, he smacked his head again. Harder. Thankfully, five loud thumps was all it took for Mr. Barnes to get the message.

“My son, _Bucky,_ ” he snapped, “would _never_ do that, so I’m going to stop you right there, _Detective Judson._ The only thing I want to hear right now is what you’re doing to find him, because this...whatever _this_ is...seems like you’re _trying_ to waste our time!”

Thank god! The big daddy bear had come roaring out of the woods, claws out, teeth bared, just like the night he’d reared up on his hind legs to protect Steve from that mean nurse in the ER! But, as much as he wanted to, Steve couldn’t lie to himself. Mr. Barnes’ grizzly voice had wavered; a hint of uncertainty in the last few syllables asking, ‘ _Would_ Bucky run away?’

Steve slid further down in the uncomfortable chair (also from 1972) and tried to will himself to stop sweating. It didn’t work. Even his _skin_ smelled like goddamn tequila! The oversized ‘I heart NY’ shirt Natasha had begrudgingly picked up from the tourist shop next to the station bunched up around Steve’s waist as he wondered the same damn thing. _Would he?_

“We have a multitude of witnesses who say that your underage _son_ was completely out of control at the party. That not only was he drinking heavily, but he was visibly high on something. Maybe he’s afraid to come home? Thinking that he’d get in trouble? Worried about the consequences?”

Natasha spoke up, loud and clear. “Bucky’s not like that.”

“Then what _is_ he like?” Detective Asshole sounded frustrated, which pissed Steve off even more. “Judging by the state of your son’s boyfriend, who’s currently ruining my trash can and stinking up the hall, I think it’s pretty fair to say that your brother made some bad decisions last night. I’m sure he’ll turn up.”

“The fact that they were drinking has nothing to do with this!” Phil hollered. “Yes, Bucky’s been having a hard time lately, he just started therapy because our family’s been dealing with some very serious issues, and, yes, he’s made some bad choices, but none of that changes the fact that my _seventeen-year-old child_ is missing! Stop downplaying the situation, _Detective Judson,_ and do something about it!”

“We are, Mr. Barnes. As soon as I take down the rest of your son’s information and your daughter emails me the picture she mentioned, I’ll get the Missing Person’s Report into our system and put the word out.”

That deserved another cranial smash to the glass, because really? All this fucker was gonna do was throw Natasha’s ridiculous description of Bucky online!? Steve could only imagine how that was gonna play out on official police channels...

 

Name: James Buchanan Barnes/prev. Yakov Mikhailovich Bukhalo.   Alias/Street Name/Nickname: Bucky.   Height: 5’ 11”. Weight: 180  lbs.  Hair: Brown.   Eyes: Blue. Scars/Marks/Tattoos: 3 freckles above left hip that look like Orion’s Belt, tiny mole in belly button   Age: 17. Last seen: 10/30/16, Approx 1:00 am. Last Seen Health Condition: completely wasted. Last Seen Location: straddling Steve Rogers at Tony Stark’s Halloween Party.   Last Seen Wearing: silver sequined jumpsuit, collar of long, red feathers, 10 inch gold platform boots, copious amounts of glitter, full glam makeup.

 

Every homophobic NYPD street cop was sure to _jump_ at the chance to work overtime searching for their worst fucking nightmare. Jesus christ, Steve was gonna puke again.

“That’s it?” Natasha snapped. “You’ve got to be kidding me!”

“I’m sorry, but the responding officers already went well above normal procedure by searching the Stark residence, and, I’ve got to say, you’re lucky that Howard Stark authorized that in the first place. He didn’t have to.”

A hand slammed on something hard. Natasha’s? Bucky’s dad’s? A desk? A wall? Hopefully both of them had attacked the dick with the moustache. When Mr. Barnes hollered, “What are you _talking_ about!?” his voice was loud enough that three doors opened along the hallway and three corresponding cop’s heads popped out to see what the hell was going on. Steve took great pleasure in flipping them off.

“Without any evidence of foul play, I’m afraid that’s all we can do at this point. If new info comes in, call me and that will change. In the meantime, my partner, who was magically ordered to prioritize your case, has been in contact with Mr. Stark from Malaysia all morning. His people provided us with the security footage from his residence, but, based on what my partner just texted me, I’m sorry, Mr. Barnes, but it doesn’t look like it’s going to be much help.”

“How’s that possible? A man like Stark has to have cameras everywhere!”

Bucky’s dad’s voice...god, the sound of it made Steve sink even lower, his t-shirt riding up well  past his stomach. Bucky loved to push up Steve’s shirts; in between classes, after practice, at home, _anywhere,_ he’d corner Steve in the most random places, lifting the fabric up with his nose and quickly licking circles around Steve’s nipples before running off as fast as he could, yelling ‘Nipple Attack!’ It was one of Steve’s favorite things. Grabbing the milk out of the fridge...Nipple Attack! Leaving a stressful meeting with Fury...Nipple Attack! Walking across a subway platform...Nipple Attack! But Bucky wasn’t here. His tongue was somewhere else. There was no licking or laughter, just stale air and harsh fluorescent lights, and Steve sank impossibly lower, his black leather legs stretching halfway across the hallway. The shift had made the bottom of his right nipple peek out, but Steve made no move to fix it.

“Yes, you’re right, Mr. Barnes, he does have security cameras everywhere. But the number of cameras isn’t the issue…hang on...let me read this again. There’s a problem with...actually, wait here, it’s easier if you just talk to my partner.”

The detective walked out of the office, and Steve was so tempted to stick his foot out a couple more inches and trip the guy, but Dickface Moustache literally ran past Steve and his trashcan full of bile, scurrying for backup.

“Yeah, you’d better run,” Steve hissed as he grabbed his can, tipping it a little so the remnants of the party sloshed around the sides. Was Bucky throwing up too? Was someone holding his hair, or was he alone, suffering without anyone to wipe his mouth with a cold cloth? Another wave of nausea hit Steve full force, and, when he pulled the can closer to his face, he saw her...his mother hunched over her own containers, her sunshine blonde hair gone, the roundness of her cheeks inverted, concave, and nothing left of her when she was done. In the end, his beautiful mother had thrown up so many times that the whites of her eyes had turned pink.

           _...Pretend they’re tinted with rose petals, Steven. You know how much I love my roses…_

 _Steve’s_ eyeballs were stained pink from the shards of glitter digging into the soft parts, no rose gardens in sight. The dry heaves started again, and he couldn’t even look up as two sets of footsteps returned to the office. Introductions were made. Detective Mendosa. Condolences for a missing starboy. “I’m sorry for what your family is going through, Mr. Barnes, Miss Barnes, I can’t even imagine. Please, have a seat so I can explain what I’ve found on the footage.” She sounded so much nicer than the dickwad.

Unfortunately, Steve’s stomach wasn’t done...heave, then listen...try to breathe...hold it...listen. Detective Mendosa wasn’t as loud as the other guy, but if he leaned towards the door he could still hear her, once he was able to put the can back on the tiles.

“I wish I had better news. I’ve made it through the preliminary look, and the cameras in the ballroom were obscured by hundreds of helium balloons, meaning what they captured was minimal. I’ve isolated your son arriving in the foyer and walking into the party, but, once inside, I’ve only found pieces...glimpses. There’s a few minutes of him talking to one of Tony Stark’s friends, Loki Laufeyson, at the bar, a clear shot of him stumbling down a hallway and knocking a painting off the wall before he sits down and…” She cleared her throat. “The boy outside the door is your son’s boyfriend, right?”

“Yes,” Mr. Barnes said quietly. “Steve Rogers.”

“Okay, good to know, because I have a clear shot of Steve removing your son’s boots before they have a…” She paused again, obviously choosing her words carefully, and Steve just waited. Truth be told, he barely remembered Bucky running into that hideous floral painting, just the part where they’d almost peed their super tight pants laughing about it, and he didn’t remember taking off Bucky’s boots at all. “To put this gently, there was what appears to have been a consensual sexual encounter before they headed back to the ballroom. We’ve recovered the boots. The officer on scene dropped them off earlier. You can take them with you when we’re done here.”

           _...We’ve recovered the boots..._

How long until her words changed to, _‘We’ve recovered the body’_?

Steve gasped at the betrayal of his own mind. Why the hell did he think that!? What the fuck was wrong with him!? But it wouldn’t stop, her words twisting into the unthinkable without his permission. _‘The officer dropped the body off earlier. You can take it with you when we’re done here.’_

Everything Detective Mendosa was saying was horrible. _Everything!_ There was no bright light at the end of this fucked up tunnel, just the hopeless sound of a zipper sealing a black bag over Bucky’s lifeless face.

“I found a few seconds of your son standing inside the maze of hay bales, and it looks like he might have been talking to someone, but, unfortunately, the balloons drifted back over the camera before it picked up who it could have been. Mr. Stark has graciously offered to partner with us, using his advanced technology to look further, which we’ve accepted, and our specialist will be in this afternoon to review the footage again, but so far, I’m sorry to say, there’s nothing useful.”

Natasha moved closer to the door, Steve could tell by the lightness of her steps, and she was only a few feet from him when she said, “If the cameras saw Bucky going in, how could they not see him coming out? I don’t understand.”

Would the tag on his lovely Greek toe say ‘Bucky’ or ‘James’? Jesus Christ! Stop!

“When we interviewed Tony Stark this morning,” Detective Mendosa continued, “he admitted to altering the footage prior to the party. Knowing that his father monitors the exterior cameras remotely when he’s away on business, Tony concealed the party by looping hours of footage from a different day, with the intent of replacing the interior footage after the party in case something was damaged or stolen. He might be a genius, but he didn’t take the balloons into account, and the service areas have fewer cameras. Your son must have exited the house through one of those blind spots.”

“What?” Mr. Barnes gasped. “Why would Tony...what the hell’s wrong with these kids...I don’t…”

Who would wash the glitter off of Bucky’s olive skin? Would it clog the drain at the morgue? Steve’s breaths were coming faster...erratic...he couldn’t feel his toes...

Detective Dickwad interrupted, grumbling, “I’m sorry, Mr. Barnes, but we need to finish this missing person’s report so I can get back to conducting interviews. I have three kids from the party waiting with their parents, voluntarily, in my lobby, and they have no obligation to stay. So, if you really want us to help find your son, we need to know about his character, and not the candy coated version, but his real state of mind…”

Suck in a breath...hold it…Bucky doesn’t want to be put underground to rot...count to ten...he wants to be planted so he can grow into the tallest tree...

“He’s been upset about something,” Natasha said sharply.

Count to ten...four...five...his stomach seized...five...five...jesus, why couldn’t he fucking count to ten!?

“And I don’t mean what’s been going on with Steve and his stepdad, it’s much, much more than that.”

“Natasha…” Her father whispered... _Bucky’s_ father whispered...his heart breaking in slow motion.

“Something happened about a month ago at the homecoming dance. I don’t know the whole story, but Bucky and Steve left early and didn’t show up to the after party. Honestly, I figured they were...um... anxious to get some alone time. I didn’t see them before they left for their guy’s weekend with Stark and a few other people, and I didn’t think much of it till Sunday, when this other kid we go to school with, TJ Campbell, showed up at my house with Bucky’s phone. They aren’t even friends, and he was acting really shady. When Bucky got home, he refused to tell me what the hell was going on...then this guy who’s been bullying Bucky for years _magically_ gets kicked out of school on Monday.” Natasha huffed out a breath and slapped at the blinds on the window. “Ever since then, Bucky’s just seemed _off_. I wish I knew more, I wish I’d pushed him about it, but Bucky doesn’t talk to me like he used to. I thought it was because he got a boyfriend, or he was mad because I’d started dating his best friend...I don’t know...he just stopped talking to me.”

Breathe...Steve was numb up to his chest...three quarters of him missing...almost all of him, like Bucky...

“Sweetheart,” Phil said calmly, lying through his teeth with his flat tone. There was _nothing_ calm about her story. “Take a breath, okay? Slow down. Are you talking about Brock Rumlow?”

“Woah,” Detective Dick interjected. “Not _the_ Brock Rumlow…”

Natasha was crying, and Steve knew...he sensed it...that _everything_ was about to explode. The chairs started rattling against the drywall, the ceiling tiles shifted in their metal frames, raining dust and judgement down onto Steve’s decapitated head as he waited for her to say it.

“Yes, that’s exactly who I mean.”

Steve gave up on breathing...on counting...on everything as the ceiling fell. He’d thought Bucky was okay! That they’d gotten through it!

“I expelled Rumlow from Eaton over a month ago.” Every ounce of fake calm was obliterated when Mr. Barnes spoke. “Brock had a firearm in his locker, but... I don’t understand what that has to do with my son! Natasha, what are you saying?”

“Dad, I’m so sorry.” She was sobbing now, the ugly kind, and Steve collapsed sideways onto the row of chairs, his head listening to all the pieces coming together and ripping apart at the same time. “Yesterday morning, after Clint and I broke up, we started talking about Bucky...about how we were both worried about him...that something wasn’t right...” Her voice cracked as she tried to spit out the words. “Clint thinks the real reason Bucky’s been acting weird has something to do with Brock…and, I’m so sorry, Dad, I should have told you sooner, but we’re pretty sure Bucky’s been doing drugs…”

“What!?” Phil’s voice was pure anguish, and Steve’s body dissolved into nothing as he listened to a father coming apart.

She was moving rapidly around the room, lightweight footsteps moving away from the door, then closer. And the cops were asking overlapping questions, which Natasha ignored completely. “I swear, I was going to tell you this morning when I woke up!”

“Why on Earth would you wait! I don’t understand…”

“Because!” she yelled. “Clint said we should let him have fun at the party! You saw him, dad! Bucky was so excited about his costume, he was practically glowing, and Clint promised me that it would be okay... _I_ thought it would be okay...it was just one more night, and I told Steve to watch him... I swear, Dad, I never thought anything like this could happen…”

The conversation probably continued, but Steve had already heard everything he needed. Adrenaline surging, every bone, muscle, and nerve snapped back to life as he leapt to his feet, kicked over the trash can, and ran like hell. He didn’t care that his puke had exploded all over the legs of the uncomfortable chairs and was spreading across the tiles, or that an army of cops were all ordering him to stop as he stormed past the rows of identical desks littered with stacks of paper and mugs full of wretched burnt coffee! Fuck them all! Even the pleas from Mr. Barnes, fading more with every step, did absolutely nothing to stop him.

Instead, Steve slammed his cast against the metal door at the end of the hall and burst into the stairwell, running down the steps two or three at a time. Someone was behind him, heavy boots, shouts, but Steve didn’t care. Careening through the lobby, he shoved past the human obstacles on his way to the door...move, move, move, move...and he never looked back as he quickly crossed the street, ducking into the fast moving, ever present crowd.

Three blocks later, Steve had no problem hailing a cab, even with the crazed look in his glitter filled eyes.

 

**Day 1- 1:57 pm**

Steve had been waiting on the crumbling steps for an eternity (probably more like twenty minutes), but it _felt_ like forever. The hangover headache had already reached atomic levels and was still getting worse by the second; each painful pulse screaming Bucky’s name. And the rage? He’d been desperately trying to control its rising levels by picking shit off his pants (not working), grinding the top layer of blue off his cast on the rusty handrail (not working), and jamming his knuckles as hard as humanly possible into his temples (fucking futile).

He just needed one simple thing; for somebody, _anybody,_ to open the locked door to the goddamn apartment building, but it was fucking crickets. There were no families dressed in their Sunday best returning with full hearts _and_ full bellies after their weekly powwow with God...no old people hobbling out with pieces of stale bread tucked in the pockets of their cardigans to feed their duck children in Prospect Park...nothing...no signs of life, except a cat howling from a cracked window above Steve’s head. It was maddening! Plus, his phone kept buzzing every three seconds with a string of completely useless texts...

 

Natasha: Where r u!?

Bucky’s Dad: Steven, please call me. I can’t have both of you missing! Please.

Sam: Any news? Man, txt back. I’m worried.

Natasha: Dad & I are walking Tony’s neighborhood. Please tell me Bucky texted u...that u found him...something!

Tony: Hacking NYPD facial recognition. If Milk Carton Boy passes a traffic cam/ATM I’ll find him

Castle: cops got anything? need help?

Scott: Oh man, just heard. U hangin in there?

Tony: Accessed new TOP SECRET gait recognition software. If I join the Missing Club, the CIA got me.

Sam: Natasha says u ran from the cops! Wtf! Call me!

Natasha: I hate u

 

Steve ignored them all. If it wasn’t Bucky’s name lighting up his screen, he didn’t fucking care! And jesus, the headache! A sadistic serial killer had planted his black galoshes right in front of Steve, cackling wildly as blood splattered across his leather mask while his chainsaw sliced, millimeter by millimeter, down the center of Steve’s skull. Every one of his tortured brain cells wanted to scream, but Steve dug his fingers deep into his scalp instead; the sticky mess in his hair instantly trapping all ten digits like a goddamn cage.

God, Bucky’d worked so hard on Steve’s hair yesterday; bending his body this way and that in his sparkling jumpsuit, adjusting each strand, each spike, with laser sharp precision. His concentration had been so intense that Bucky’s adorably pink tongue had parked itself in the corner of his mouth. It had taken Bucky half an hour to transform Steve’s basic undercut into glam perfection, but, thanks to that little hint of pink, the time had flown by; the minute hand ticking forward in a blur while Steve had gotten lost in the texture of the taste buds. Would Rose or Blush Pink be the perfect colored pencil to capture its softness? Would Bucky let Steve slip a piece of Spearmint gum between his lips, so he could suck the flavor off his tongue when they kissed? He’d gotten hard thinking about Bucky kneeling down and teasing his way up Steve’s inner thigh with just the tip…

His phone dinged again, and Steve yanked his fingers so hard that huge clumps of hair ripped out at the roots. Please be Bucky. Please, please, please…

 

Tony: pulled footage from White Trash Movie Night. Ur boy struts like John Travolta

 

That was it! He was fucking done! The constant dinging with every name _except_ Bucky’s, the stupid, howling cat that wouldn’t shut its goddamn face, the locked door with a buzzer that Steve couldn’t ring...all the bullshit combined... _Fuck!_ If somebody didn’t waltz through this door right this fucking second, Steve was gonna rip the goddamn thing off its hinges and throw it into the mother fucking street! If it caused an accident...oh well. If he smashed the side of the family friendly Ford Flex parked in front...even better! His heart was beating a million miles a second, and the puke was rising again, but Steve somehow kept his ass planted on the cold concrete, waiting for his opportunity. Pressing the buzzer would destroy the element of surprise, and, right now, that wasn’t something he was willing to sacrifice.

 _Fucking finally,_ the heavy door creaked open and a hipster lady with a crying baby tied to her chest with a...Steve squinted at her...plaid fabric, twisted weird, half mushed baby...he didn’t have a clue. Whatever. Right behind her, a curly haired toddler was wielding a toy xylophone like a weapon, hitting the wall, the doorframe, and yelling, “Boom!” at the top of her little lungs. There was nothing the mom could do. She knew it. The Xylophone Ninja knew it. And Steve sure as hell knew it too. Opportunity had finally knocked! Faking chivalry, Steve wobbled to his feet and caught the door, holding it open as he dredged up his most innocent and charming smile from the depths of his damp, sticky ass.

“Afternoon, Ma’am.”

“Boom!” Curly hair screeched as she slammed her weapon of mass destruction against the wall. The mom didn’t even look. She was too busy sizing Steve up, pushing something into the baby’s mouth (which it promptly spit back out), and throwing sarcastic one liners his way. “Nice shirt. It goes really well with your eighties hair metal pants.”

“Yeah, that’s what I thought too!” Smile bigger. Make it pretty. “I was going for a Billy Idol kind of vibe.”

“More like Bret Michaels without his wig.”

The tiny baby slapped the mom’s cheek, which Steve fully supported. Bret Fucking Michaels!? Was she serious!? He tried his damnedest to smile even wider.

There’s a point when a smile crosses over into The Land of Nightmares, and Steve knew he was already there. He definitely _felt_ insane. No doubt about that. At any second, hipster lady was gonna yank the door out of his hands, sing a few lines of ‘Every Rose Has its Thorn’, then slam it shut to keep Steve’s sticky, hungover, vomit scented, ‘I heart NY’ and leather clad ass out of her building!

“Boom!”

Pain suddenly blasted all the way up Steve’s leg and he half yelped, half burped. “Jesus! What the…”

The look of horror in the mom’s eyes was amazing. Picture perfect, really, because the unruly toddler was standing at Steve’s feet, staring up at him with an undeniable look of pride, and winding up her xylophone for another swing. The first time she’d hit a grand slam, nailing Steve squarely on his shin. Now, her sights were set on his kneecap.

“Clementine! No!”

Steve grinned (for real this time) because the little girl with the hipster name was nothing short of a miracle! Suddenly, Bad Mommy couldn’t _wait_ to let Bret Michaels waltz through the front door with his acoustic guitar! Apparently, the soul crushing embarrassment that only tiny humans can cause trumps a parent’s unwavering dedication to the Neighborhood Watch. As the mom readjusted her papoose and dragged Steve’s Savior down the steps, he couldn’t stop himself from giving the little shit a proper salute before slipping inside to run up the stairs.

The hallway was dimly lit and smelled the same as it always did; the mustiness of prewar construction mixed with garlic. Breathing through his mouth, Steve cracked his knuckles against the peeling, dark green door, focusing on the brass number seven that was nailed in the middle and trying to keep his shit together. Just thinking about who was behind that door...Steve growled under his breath...it was almost impossible to stay calm! But Steve dug deep, using his last ounce of self-control to knock gently three times. Easy...take a breath...wait for it. Steve stepped to the side to avoid the peephole, shaking out his hand. Wait for it…

Nothing happened. Three knocks didn’t do shit except to make the dog bark, which pissed Steve off even more! Screw gentle! It took exactly thirty-nine knocks and two busted knuckles for the voice Steve had been waiting for to yell over his obnoxiously barking dog.

“Go away, whoever the fuck you are!”

Stay calm...take a breath...

“Clint, open the door. It’s Steve.”

Chains rattled and locks clicked as Steve rolled his shoulders back, blowing out two fast breaths as the door swung open and Lucky barreled past him out into the hall. With impeccable timing, Steve made the perfect pivot, smashing his right fist into Clint’s jaw.

The connection was beautiful. Clint arched backwards and crashed into a tiny table, going down hard as keys and mail flew everywhere. Perfect! Steve was so lost in the satisfaction that he barely noticed when Lucky grabbed hold of his calf...until he chomped right through the leather and broke the skin! _Then_ Steve fucking noticed! But he wasn’t stopping now. Fuck that!

Pushing into the apartment, Steve landed another punch to Clint’s ribs before grabbing him by the shirt and screaming, “Bucky was doing _drugs_ and you didn’t tell me! You motherfucker!” Steve shook him hard with one arm, his veins bulging and his heartbeat raging in his temples. “You buried your fucking head in the sand, and now he’s gone! He’s _gone!_ ”

          ... _Bucky’s cupid bow lips whispering ‘I love you’ against Steve’s cheek, the melody different every time…_

Suddenly, Clint’s heavy boot landed squarely on Steve’s shin...in the same exact spot as the fucking xylophone! Seriously!? The shock of it gave Clint enough time to scramble back to his feet and nail Steve with his own ‘Boom!’ right in the solar plexus. He had to give Clint credit, every last molecule of air was knocked out of his lungs, and Steve couldn’t do a damn thing except stumble backwards against the door. Lucky was still attached. That sucked. He tried to shake the dog off, but he only clamped down harder, growling as blood starting running down Steve’s ankle.

A hardcover book flew directly at Steve’s forehead (‘‘Fifty Shades of Grey’ if he wasn’t mistaken), and he barely managed to duck out of the way with the goddamn dog chomping on his fucking leg!

“Me!?” Clint screeched. “You’re seriously saying this is _my_ fault!? What the hell’s wrong with you, Steve!? Where the fuck were _you_ when Nat called me in a complete panic at one o’clock in the goddamn morning!? Huh? You self-righteous asshole!”

Another book (Oprah’s smiling face this time) nailed Steve in the shoulder, followed by an entire basket of magazines, their pages flying and flapping everywhere. But then, the coup de gras was fired, the tiny cactus impacting the middle of his chest like a goddamn grenade! A mother fucking _cactus!_

“Fuck!” Steve stared at the tiny plant that was _literally_ sticking out of his left pec, vase and all! What the hell was with all the goddamn plants! “You impaled me with a cactus!”

“Yeah, _prick,_ you deserve it!” Clint’s feet were serial killer wide, and he had ‘Fifty Shades Darker’ in one hand and a bowl of potpourri in the other, both ready to fly. “Unlike you, I’m man enough to admit when I fuck up, and yeah, _Steve,_ I fucked up! Nat and I should’ve said something. That’s on me. But _you_ …” he hissed, shaking the ceramic bowl, “... _you_ should’ve known! _You’re_ the one sleeping in Bucky’s bed every night, _you’re_ the one waking up with him wrapped in your arms every morning, and _you’re_ the one looking into Bucky’s eyes when you have sex! Unless you don’t do that,” he sneered. “After you let _this_ happen, I wouldn’t be surprised to find out you only fuck Bucky like a dog!”

Christian Grey got launched towards the kitchen before the deadly potpourri was whipped full force at Steve’s face. “And you wanna blame _me_ when all this shit was going down right in front of your stupid, self-centered face! Fuck you, Steve!”

The bowl bounced off his forehead with minimal damage, but the potpourri attack was surprisingly effective. He couldn’t see shit when Clint charged and hit him right below the cactus, wrapping his arms around Steve’s thighs to slam him backwards into the hallway. Lucky circled them, barking and growling, as a door opened at the end of the hall.

“Hey! What’s going on out here! Oh my god, Clint!” It was Larry something. Steve had met him once when his daughter had sold Clint’s mom a poinsettia to raise money for her school choir...or something like that. “I’m calling the cops!”

Steve sneezed as his spine crashed into the banister, then again as the metal rail knocked the wind out of him for a second time. The little pieces were vanilla, or ocean scented...whatever...Steve was fucking allergic to it, and the combination gave Clint a whopping opportunity to jam the heel of his palm under Steve’s nose all the way up to China. Fuck! There went his nose again! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!

“No, Larry, don’t!” Clint huffed as he swung again, nailing Steve in the kidney as Lucky lunged for Steve’s arm. “I’ve got this.”

Sadly, Steve had to agree. He’d never lost a fight, except to Alexander, but those losses had mostly been Steve’s choice. This, on the other hand...with the sneezing, the canine mutilation, the tears clouding his vision, the cactus _still_ sticking out of him, and the blood pouring out of _everywhere..._ was most definitely _not_ Steve’s choice. He’d barely gotten half a breath into his lungs when Clint executed some sort of illegal MMA move and pulled Steve down into a headlock; folding him in half and using his stupid archery muscles to squeeze Steve’s skull like one of Tony’s goddamn cherries! This was it. His head was gonna pop; chainsaws, overdeveloped triceps, tequila, cherry juice dripping all across the universe, minus the splash of whiskey. Boom.  

“Nat told me how fucked up you were! How you had Bucky sucking shots off your stomach in front of _everyone_ like a fucking whore!” Clint squeezed tighter as the blood dripped. When a big glob landed in Lucky’s golden fur, it made everything that much worse. “Nat _told_ you to watch him! She fucking told you! And you have the nerve to show up at _my_ door and accuse me…”

Steve didn’t let him finish that sentence.

One of the only benefits of dwelling in the pits of hell with Alexander had been the mandatory self-defense training. Pierce loved money, but he loved his reputation even more, and if some criminal mastermind had ever gotten the brilliant idea to kidnap Steve for ransom, Alexander had wanted him to be prepared. In other words, he’d wanted to avoid the publicity nightmare when he’d refused to hand over one shiny penny to save Steve the Parasite. Even at fourteen, Steve had known that he’d better take the training seriously. God, if Alexander could only see him now...

Using his next sneeze as a distraction, Steve reached up and grabbed Clint’s arm, shifting his hips backwards to pick him up in one smooth motion and flip him, wild blue hair and all, flat on his back. Clint’s boot made itself a nice hole in the drywall as Steve yanked out the goddamn cactus and blasting it through the air at Clint’s chest. “See how you like it, fucker!”

Unfortunately, he missed.

“That’s it, I’m calling your mom.” Larry charged down the hall and pulled Lucky off by the collar, hauling him backwards and slamming his door behind them. Clint was trying unsuccessfully to get his boot out of the wall and laying out a long line of obscenities that were too vulgar to repeat, and Steve... honestly, he was about to pass out, or puke, or both. It was a clusterfuck.

Just as Clint got his foot free (minus the boot), Steve raised Clint’s MMA and went full WWE Smackdown, dropping his weight across his chest and pinning Archery Boy’s annoyingly strong arms. “Accuse you of what, Clint?” Drops of spit and blood were landing all over Clint’s face, and Steve gave zero shits. Zero! “Of not telling anyone that Bucky was using drugs so you could rush in at the perfect moment and play hero!? Because that’s _exactly_ what I think!”

Clint’s mouth curled up in a sneer before he spit in Steve’s face; the biggest glob making an impressive glitter eye bullseye. “Oh, yeah? Is that all you got, Steve? How about the fact that you lied about Rumlow attacking Bucky to save your own ass!?”

“What!?”

“Oh, yeah. Castle called this morning! Told me the whole fucking story! How you let Brock get away with assault so you could hide your ‘gay secret’ from your fucking stepdad! How you let Bucky get mixed up with TJ Campbell!”

“I did that for Bucky!” Steve gasped. “I didn’t ask for Frank and TJ to get involved! It just happened! They got Brock expelled, and we moved on. It’s what Bucky wanted!”

“Really, Steve? Is that what you tell yourself so you can sleep at night? ‘Cause it looks to me like you ended up sittin’ pretty with a brand new boyfriend in your brand new house, with a brand new family, and your money, and your causes, _and_ all of Bucky’s attention! Your brilliant plan after Bucky got _sexually assaulted_ was ratting out Brock Rumlow for having a gun! A fucking _gun,_ Steve! On what planet does _any_ of that make sense!?”

Clint wrenched sideways, using Steve’s fucking cast to his advantage, and got his left hand free. Tangling it in the sticky mess on top of Steve’s head, he used the leverage to roll out and jump to his feet. One boot on, one boot off. One roller skate on, one roller skate off. One glitter boot on…

“I told you what happened in the kitchen that day! And what? You thought it was some kind of fluke that Bucky freaked out about my stupid hair!” Clint’s volume was increasing as he careened backwards into the apartment, the woven rug folding up underneath his mismatched feet as he grabbed hold of his long blue strands and yanked.

“You know who else called me this morning!? Daisy! She said she’d been trying to call you since Friday...that you blew her off at the party. She told me Bucky made you some sweet little pictures filled with weird shit that he didn’t seem to realize that he’d drawn! Did Bucky give you a present, Steve? Huh? Notice any blood or giant blueberries? Maybe that he’d colored my hair purple? When Daisy asked him about it, she said it was like he’d totally forgotten that Nat had dyed it blue!”

The little drawings flashed through Steve’s head at lightning speed; Clint’s mohawk in the fire picture...what color was it? Closing his eyes, Steve saw it. Purple. It was purple. And Tony...Steve was going to throw up again...Tony wasn’t supposed to be there. Backing up, Steve used his shoulder to shut the door as he watched the blood from the cactus saturating his shirt. It was forming an organic starfish right under the letter ‘I’.

All the sudden, crashing and banging noises erupted from the tiny kitchen, and it only took a few steps to see that Clint was wildly yanking spatulas, pizza cutters, and wooden spoons out of a handful of drawers and throwing them everywhere. Then, before Steve had even started to comprehend what the hell was happening, Clint snatched up a huge pair of scissors and started violently hacking at his hair; blond and blue clumps falling like feathers.

“What if Bucky did run away?” Clint wailed, cutting, chopping...the grind of metal on metal... “What if he got so wasted that he took a swan dive off a bridge to escape my goddamn hair!?”

The sound of the scissors...the sobs...the pieces of blue dancing across the wooden floor as the heat kicked on...Steve couldn’t breathe.

“What if it _was_ Brock!? You really thought you could get someone like Brock Rumlow expelled and have everything be peachy fucking keen!?”

Clint had chopped off the entire front, leaving only four inches of colorless blond as he hacked at the middle. It bothered Steve. He didn’t know why. Maybe it was the blue pieces piling up around one boot, one sock? One sock with a hole in the toe...the sound of the metal grinding together…

“Stop!” Steve yelped, making a lunge for the scissors. “Drop them!”

“No!” Clint tried to kick him in the nuts as he kept right on chopping. “Why didn’t you tell me TJ Campbell was involved in this mess! He’s an _addict,_ Steve! They have _history!_ What if Bucky OD’d and he’s dead behind a dumpster!?”

Only the back of his hair was left, less than a handful of blue hanging down as he reached behind himself to cut, cut, cut…

When Clint snapped the scissors to snip off the final piece of the mohawk that had defined him for so many years, Steve’s rage transformed into something else. Loss? Shame? Fear? He had no idea, but whatever it was made him whisper, “TJ only helped that weekend. I don’t even think that Bucky’s talked to him since…”

          ... _A tiny figure wrapped around Bucky’s feet...one who looked nothing like Tony..._

“Stop being so naive!” Clint threw the scissors back in the drawer and aggressively ran his fingers through his mangled hair, flinging rogue strands in all directions before he stripped off his shirt and threw it at the microwave.

          ... _A unicorn doing somersaults on the bed...a boy who couldn’t come, no matter how lovingly Steve had sucked his cock…_

“You haven’t been at school till this week, I was busy trying to fix shit with Nat, Sam says he’s been skipping class…”

Steve could see Clint’s mouth moving and his hands gesturing wildly, but the apartment went completely silent.

There had been nights when Bucky’d sweat so much that they’d woken up at three in the morning and had to put towels over the puddle. A leather jacket that had appeared out of nowhere. The box of smashed pastries delivered with an overly-wide smile. Bucky picking Twenty One Pilots ‘Stressed Out’ for ‘The Morning Sing-a-long’ three days in a row and acting like it was the first time he’d chosen it each time. Checkered laces missing from his blue boots.

When your world has already collapsed inward, the center dissolving into a gooey mass of black, there’s a moment of relief when you think the worst is already over. As Steve’s mind clicked, wheels creaking and turning that should have turned weeks ago, his world compressed into an impossible singularity before flipping inside out, guts and severed veins on the outside, because _he should have known._

“It’s my fault,” Steve said. Because it was. God, it was...

Clint’s mouth stopped moving at the same time as the theme from ‘The A-Team’ started blaring from the phone on the kitchen counter.

“Shit.” Clint grabbed the phone and groaned at the screen. He paused for a second, locking eyes with Steve and muttering, “It’s everyone’s fault,” before pushing the button to silence Mr. T.

“Mom, I know, I’m sorry…”

Every piece of Steve was exposed. Every weakness, every mistake...

“It’s Steve, yes, obviously he’s upset… yeah, he hit me, but I totally kicked his ass...no, no, mom. Stop! Don’t come home. It’s over now…”

...everything he should have done...

“Well, um...I think I broke his nose…but, Mom, it was already half broken…”

...everything he should have seen...

“Yeah, I’ll keep him here. Just call Bucky’s dad...okay…. yeah, I’m sorry. I’ll go get Lucky and apologize to Larry.”

...every failure...

“I’ll text if I hear anything else...no, I’m not okay, but you don’t have to leave work...I love you too, mom...Okay, I’m hanging up. Bye.”

Clint dropped the phone on the counter, and Steve started counting backwards from ten to try to ground himself. Nine...he couldn’t feel his arms. Eight...he was in Clint’s kitchen, there was an empty spice rack nailed to the wall. Seven...fuck it...Steve gave up. The blood from his nose was really pouring down the back of his throat. Bucky was gone. Clint looked like a Fraggle who’d gotten run over by a lawnmower; if Fraggles had silver nipple rings. Steve choked, the blood gurgling in his mouth, because it killed him that Bucky wasn’t here to laugh at the joke.

Another wave of nausea hit, and Steve barely made it to the toilet before letting out nothing but bile and blood. Over and over, the dry heaves rocked his body, until Clint reached over his shoulder and shoved an open bottle of water and a wet paper towel in his face.

“What if Bucky’s throwing up,” Steve whimpered, “and nobody’s there to hold back his hair? What if he’s all alone and…”

“Steve, c’mon. You’re no good to anybody like this.”

It was unexpected when Clint squatted down behind him. And more so when he grabbed the hem of the ruined ‘I heart NY’ shirt and pushed it up over Steve’s head and into the garbage can with the Q-Tips and used Kleenex. But Steve let it happen, pliantly lifting his arms as the cotton was stripped away with the last of the needles.

Strong hands slipped under Steve’s armpits and guided him backwards, away from the porcelain throne. “You’re gonna lay down and sleep this off, then we’ll go look for him.” He grunted when Steve’s feet refused to move. “For fuck’s sake, you’ve got at least thirty pounds on me! Stand up!”

As much as Steve wanted to crawl inside a hole and die, Clint was right.

It took a minute to steady himself, the carnage of the apartment coming into focus for the first time. But Clint was there, wedged under Steve’s arm and telling him what he was supposed to do with every step; ‘watch out for the coffee table...don’t trip on the magazines...stand here, don’t move’. Steve couldn’t help but think of Bucky’s collar, the soft leather pressing against his glistening skin as he followed every order with sensual perfection...

Suddenly, everything became so much clearer.

Clint never hesitated in his actions, simply shoving a pizza box off the edge of his messy mattress and ignoring the two rubbery slices that slid out the side. And Steve stood where he’d been told. There was no attempt at modesty when Clint crawled into the middle of the bed, his jeans dipping so low that the crack of his ass hung out as he smoothed the sheets with his calloused hands. And Steve stood where he’d been told. Steve’s shoes were untied and removed. His belt undone, and the leather pants peeled off his legs. Steve robotically lifting each foot when he was told. Without pause, Clint took his ruined underwear too. And Steve stood naked, feet frozen in the room where Bucky’d become who he was.

Next, there was an assembly line that felt well worn. Steve was mechanically wiped down with a warm washcloth, bandaged, put into a pair of grey underwear that were too tight and a woman’s t-shirt that wasn’t, handed three Advil, a ziplock baggie full of ice, a bottle of water, and a piece of dry toast. He chewed slowly, coaxing every surreal bite into his resistant stomach as he waited; feeling closer to Bucky by _being_ Bucky.

Once, forever ago, Bucky’d said that he trusted Clint Barton with his life. At the time, Steve had chalked it up to mindless loyalty; something you say when you’ve been best friends with someone for years, but he’d been wrong. Bucky had meant it wholeheartedly.

“I understand why Bucky fell in love with you,” Steve whispered. “You’re everything I was supposed to be.”

Tugging a white tank top over his head, Clint moaned, long and loud. “No, I’m not. I’m just good at cleaning up messes. So please, Steve, shut up and lie down! I haven’t slept since Nat called, and I can barely see straight, especially since you sucker punched me like a total dick. If we’re gonna find him, I have to close my eyes, just for a little while.” He flipped back the blankets, revealing a third rogue piece of pizza, and pointed at the empty spot...at _Bucky’s_ spot. “Please.”

Shut up. Lie down. Steve could do that.

Well, at least one of them. Waiting until Clint had tucked him in like a five-year-old, Steve dropped the ice onto his face and mumbled, “You broke my nose.”

“Yeah. I felt like destroying something beautiful.”

“What?”

Clint took off his jeans, climbing under the blanket in just boxers, and sighed. “Nothing...it’s a line from one of Bucky’s favorite movies.”

“Which one?”

“Fight Club.”

His delivery was so dry that Steve almost laughed...a _lmost._ Bucky would have; cackling at the mere idea of Clint and Steve starting up their own celebration of violence, soap, and freedom in the living room.

The ziplock was leaking, dripping cold water all over the place, so Steve tossed it onto the nightstand. His eyes were gonna turn purple with or without it. Turning to face Clint, he said,  “When Bucky had me watch it, he put on a wife beater and his ‘Tyler Durden’ shades, then perfectly delivered the speech about starting a fight with a stranger. He really has a thing for Brad Pitt, huh?”

“Steve, stop talking.” Clint scowled across the pillows, and, god, his jaw _was_ really starting to swell. That, combined with his shredded hair, red rimmed eyes, and the enormous purple circles framing them underneath...well, he was a mess, just like Steve.

“What happened to your necklace?”

The tan line was obvious, darker skin surrounding a lock and chain shaped pattern of pale, but Steve shouldn’t have asked. He should’ve known better. Clint’s fingers drifted up to touch the place where the links had been, where, for as long as Steve had known him, it had _always_ been, and his bottom lip started quaking.

“Nat, she…” He blew out a long breath, focusing somewhere over Steve’s head as the tears started to fall. “I asked her to…”

“It’s okay, Clint. You don’t have to tell me...”

“I lost it,” he interrupted, burying his face in the pillow. He mumbled something else, but Steve couldn’t make it out through the cotton and stuffing.

Clint was lying, and it was okay. Steve understood why; peeling back too many layers at the same time makes everything raw.

“We’re going to find him,” Steve whispered. “We have to.”

“And if we don’t?”

There was a rumbling, the sixth sense of impending doom as a crack spiderwebbed across the mattress to reveal a hidden fault line. For once, Steve wasn’t alone in his synesthetic vision; the terror in Clint’s eyes made it pretty damn clear that he felt the underlying vibrations too. Suddenly, the mattress split down the center, violently lurching apart to reveal a giant chasm between them; sheets disintegrating as rocks dropped like rain, inches spreading into miles in seconds as a cold, white mist rose from the depths. Every cell in Steve’s body told him to scramble over the edge and stretch out his arm as far as he could to reach him, to save him, but Bucky was already falling; long brown hair defying gravity as he tumbled away from him...from _them._

And that was it. There were no more words. Only two boys, loving a third in their own unique ways, and powerless to do anything except watch the person they’d sacrifice their lives for flip end over end out of reach. Bucky was almost out of sight, a tiny speck in a collapsing world of white, and Steve squeezed his eyes shut, praying that the bottom didn’t exist, that Bucky would simple fall and fall until Steve figured out how to catch him.

  
  
  


**Day 44- Monday, December 12th. 5:35 am**

Water splashed over Steve’s face as he dove backwards into the lane to swim his millionth lap. It took a lot of effort, but he deliberately ratcheted down the gears of his powerful arms, staring at the rafters as he swam slowly for the first time since Bucky’d been gone; letting the memories of that first unbearable day stew and steep.

Until today, pushing his body to capacity to try and catch the impossible echo of Bucky Barnes had been Steve’s soul crushing reality. Day twenty-eight, nineteen, thirty-one, three...it didn’t matter...Bucky was always out of reach.

That ended now.

You see, it’s easier to let yourself feel the agony off loss when you have a tangible plan to make it stop.

Steve closed his eyes and listened to Bucky swimming in the next lane, his kicks softening, his pace slowing until their bodies finally synchronized. That was where Steve paused, floating in his new truth as he stretched his arm across the rope to touch him…and, swear to god, one of Bucky’s fingers tapped the center of Steve’s palm…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hugs for everyone! I know you need them. Thanks for all of your amazing comments and kudos. Please keep them rolling in! I LOVE LOVE LOVE talking about these sad, goofy, sexy, SUPER screwed up boys, so hit me up! Let’s chat! Also, if you answer this chapter’s trivia questions in the comments, I’ll send you virtual goodies & mad respect!
> 
> TRIVIA  
> 1\. Why did I choose to have Bucky sing Katy Perry’s ‘Firework’ in this scene? “Drive to Eaton during the week, or the Brooklyn YMCA on the weekends, imagining Bucky’s polar bear and peppermint legs propped up on the dashboard while he obnoxiously sang ‘Firework’ and slurped down his favorite Frapp.”
> 
> 2\. In the bathroom scene, what song is Steve talking about in this passage? “...holding on for dear life as he leaned to the right, to the right, to the right, to the right, to the left, to the left, now kick. Oh, shit! Pain reverberated up his ankle from the impact, but if a song says kick, you’ve gotta kick…”
> 
> 3\. When Steve and Clint are talking about ‘Fight Club’, Clint quotes this line from the film; “Yeah. I felt like destroying something beautiful.” Who plays the character that Edward Norton is talking about?
> 
>  
> 
> MOOD MUSIC: [JessieLucidYouTube](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLbGnycMfOsiBpH-gxAX-FuPq-2F-Ovzg0)
> 
> *The Cinematic Orchestra- To Build a Home  
> *Nine Inch Nails- Every Day is Exactly the Same  
> *Kina Grannis- Iris  
> *Sense Field- The Weight of the World  
> *Nine Inch Nails- Right Where It Belongs (bathroom scene)  
> *Nine Inch Nails- This Isn’t the Place (police station scene)  
> *Nothing More- Ripping Me Apart (play with first half of scene after Steve leaves the police station)  
> *Foo Fighters- I Should Have Known  
> *Mother Love Bone- Chloe Dancer/Crown of Thorns  
> *Noah Guthrie- I Would Die 4 U
> 
>  
> 
> Find my Stucky Art on Instagram & Tumblr
> 
>  
> 
> [JessieLucidArtInstagram](https://www.instagram.com/jessielucidart/?hl=en)
> 
>  
> 
> [lucidnancyboyTumbr](https://lucidnancyboy.tumblr.com)
> 
>  
> 
> And I’m new to Twitter (JessieLucid), so help me out. I think I’m up to maybe ten followers. Very embarrassing.


	24. Gone- Day 44

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Greetings! Thanks for your patience waiting on this chapter while I wrote [InvisibleInk](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14705239/chapters/33982427) for the Cap Reverse Big Bang. If you’re looking for something sweet & sappy with minimal angst, check it out. Now, for the extra good news: I’m back to ‘Misfits’ full time, and plan on spending my summer finishing it. Yay! So, without further ado, welcome to chapter 24.
> 
> My beta [Lorien](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Lorien/works) is amazing in every way that a person can be amazing. Please check out her gorgeous Stucky art and send her some love here [drjezdzanyart](https://drjezdzanyart.tumblr.com)
> 
> Please be very mindful of the tags. This chapter contains suicidal ideations. If you need more specifics before reading, feel free to message me.
> 
> Music is critical to my writing process, and there were two songs in particular that inspired Steve’s headspace in this chapter: My Chemical Romance “The Ghost of You”, and Tom Walker “Leave a Light On”. If you’d like the full soundtrack experience, check out the entire Chapter 24 playlist here  
> [JessieLucidYouTube](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLbGnycMfOsiCcWGe0NomfBfx4qidExZbJ)  
> The track listing (and scenes they accompany) are in the end notes.

                                 

**Day 44- Monday, December 12th. 5:37 am**

Bucky’s finger tapping the center of his palm...just that tiny hint of corporeal form blessing Steve in the middle of Eaton’s pool made his heart bend in impossible ways. As the ghost floated on his back in the next lane, the long lines of his flickering form bobbing in perfect harmony with Steve’s, everything sharpened. Where Steve had to go. What he had to do. The price he was willing to pay. Because that touch, the impossible memory of Bucky Fucking Barnes’ index finger touching Steve’s scars that first night on the roof of the parking garage when he’d been bloody and battered...god, he’d kill to have that moment back.

He’d _kill_ for it.

It wasn’t lost on Steve that their synchronized Dead Man’s Floats echoed the unbearable possibility of the ghost’s reality, but Bucky’s finger was pushing through the skin, the transparent bones poking through the other side and holding Steve firm. Maybe that was his message?

Looking at Bucky’s face, beautiful even with the hint of blue, Steve said, “I’m gonna find you today, Buck.”

_“In the river?”_

“If that’s where you are, then yes, in the river.”

A striped bass peeked its mouth out of the water to nibble at the floating tendrils of Bucky’s hair, then another, then another… The ghost didn’t seem to notice.

_“So, Steve. I’ve gotta ask. What’s with the gun? A Glock isn’t gonna help you fish me out of the water.”_

Trying to shove the picture of Bucky’s cupid bow lips impaled by a fish hook out of his head, Steve snapped, “No, but it’s gonna get me the answers I need!”

Answers that might save them both.

The ghost’s entire palm intertwined with Steve’s, overlapping into one mass of bones, vessels, nerves, and intentions. He could feel Bucky’s questions.

_“Gettin’ desperate, huh, Stevie? Missing me enough to go all 1974 vigilante Charles Bronson? You’ve gotta tell me the truth before you go growing a moustache: Do you have a ‘Death Wish’?”_

“Yes,” he answered without hesitation.

_“For yourself? I know you love that Shakespeare shit, Steve, but c’mon.”_

Turning to face him, Steve squeezed their bones together as hard as he could, not worrying about breaking what wasn’t really there. Bucky was bobbing slowly in the water with Brock’s bright red handprint on his cheek, surrounded by a floating mass of pills and powder; big, small, white, round, oval…

“No,” Steve told him, “I have a death wish for everyone who hurt you.”

Suddenly, Steve’s hand became just a hand, and Bucky’s lips twisted into something undefined. _“Like I said, Stevie,”_ he whispered. _“Did you write your name on that list?”_

If the gun led Steve to the river, the ditch, the drainpipe, or the shallow grave, then the answer to the ghost’s question might be worthy of sonnets and Shakespeare. Rivers of blood melting the snow as the ravens plucked out Steve’s sightless eyes with their beaks; their tragic love story nothing more than fodder for the poets…

As Bucky dropped beneath the water, descending until he was only the tips of nine toes and the tip of his nose...then nothing at all...Steve figured it was for the best that he hadn’t answered.

  
  


**Day 10-  Tuesday, November 8th. 6:07 pm**        

Bucky’s room without Bucky was unbearable. School was horrific. Swim practice was fucking awful. Sure, his face had mostly healed again, even though his nose had an extra bump now and Lucky’s teeth had left a nice scar on his leg, but every other part of Steve was still raw and oozing. And, this time, there wasn’t a beautiful boy to bury the parts that hurt under a mountain of frozen peas. It was just Steve, drifting from empty place to empty place, wishing that he’d done everything differently.

Without Bucky’s fat cat feet propped up in Steve’s lap, the plaid couch with the dip in the center was horrible. He’d stopped sitting on it. Watching Bucky’s dad spending hours in the kitchen arguing with people on the phone about dead ends while he drank cold coffee and paced back and forth on the checkered tile was indescribable. After Steve had come across one of Bucky’s ‘Morning Laugh’ Post-it notes on a can of Coke in the back of the refrigerator, the little lizard green square reading, ‘Bucky’s! Don’t Touch!’, Steve had stopped going in there entirely, stashing protein bars and bottled water in his backpack instead. Natasha’s closed door, locked from the inside with no light coming from underneath... Bucky’s baby blue shoes still sitting in the middle of the hallway, untouched...the Barnes’ family macaroni frame collecting dust on the mantle...all of it...every last piece of the house felt cursed...dark...heavy.

But the bedroom...god, the bedroom was the worst. Bucky’s fingerprints were everywhere, on every surface, but his fingers were nowhere to be found. Three nights ago, Steve had cracked open every single DVD case on the shelf, hundreds of them, slowly tipping each silver disk in the light of the lamp to count how many fingerprints Bucky had left on each one. That was the night Steve had started sleeping on the floor.

His new designated rectangle was four by six feet of carpet next to the bed, and it housed the wadded up star comforter, one pillow, Lil Panda, the sketchbook, Steve’s backpack, Bucky’s patriotic headphones connected to the splitter on one lovingly acquired vintage walkman, and Steve himself. The ‘Self-Imposed Self-Loathing Protocol’ dictated that Steve wrap the headphones around his neck so he could stare at the splitter whenever he occupied the domicile; following the path of the tangled turquoise wires from the other pair of headphones that should have led to Bucky’s smiling face...but led to nothing instead. Steve was a depressed DJ who never hit play.

Kicking his bare foot at the empty plate he’d placed at the perimeter, Steve made the crumbs spill all over the carpet before taking a moment to feel really fucking guilty for eating a mother fucking sandwich. Mr. Barnes had brought it to him earlier, knocking gently on Freddie Mercury before setting down the perfectly stacked turkey at the western edge of the rectangle. It had been cut precisely down the center of two pieces of whole grain bread (diagonally), with exactly seventeen Ruffles Potato Chips nestled in between.

 

He’d asked how Steve’s appointment with his new therapist had gone.

Answer: Swimmingly. She educated me on the five stages of grief. I’m holding strong to ‘anger’, but I’ve also managed to skip right over ‘denial’ and ‘bargaining’ to dive headfirst into the ‘depressed smartass’ phase. Instead of a trophy, she handed me a shiny referral to a Psychiatrist as my reward.

 

He’d told Steve (again) that he had to stop going out at all hours of the night to look for Bucky.

Answer: Not happening. In fact, Tony’s picking me up at ten so we can show Bucky’s picture to every bouncer, bartender, party girl, coat check dude, and horny guy with a sexual agenda at this new underground fetish club in The West Village.

 

He’d asked if Steve wanted to talk.

Answer: No, thank you, but I appreciate the sandwich. Ruffles are my favorite.

 

What Bucky’s dad hadn’t asked was: Why the hell are you still in my house!?

Answer:

Steve didn’t have one.

 

After doing his civil duty, Mr. Barnes had ‘reluctantly’ left the room, closing the door to reveal Bucky’s beloved David Bowie. As his footsteps had faded, Steve had counted each chip, wondering if Bucky’s dad had done it on purpose; seventeen salty crinkle cut chips piled on a plate to remind Steve of the seventeen-year-old boy who the sandwich _really_ belonged to.

Steve blew out a long breath, balanced the leather bound sketchbook on his vampire bat knees, and shifted his ass on the wadded up comforter. It was covered with stars, come stains, and blood drops from the night he’d wandered through Prospect Park, lost his shit, and had busted his knuckles viciously attacking a yellow twisty slide. Plus, there was a big stain from the can of Orange Crush Bucky’d accidentally knocked over when Natasha had gotten a little too aggressive with the Bowie eyeliner before the party. Staring at the big, orange blob, he traced the organic edges with his finger. He hadn’t washed the blanket, and he wasn’t _planning_ on washing the blanket, because if he buried his nose in just the right spot, Steve could still smell him.

Earlier, after school, he’d lifted weights for an hour with Sam, sweating so much that the stink had penetrated his leather jacket as he’d ridden the subway to his third session with his lovely therapist, Kim. He’d sat in her overstuffed chair, regaling her with the lovely tale of a boy who wouldn’t wash his missing boyfriend’s blankie, as she’d nodded slowly, peering over her fashion forward spectacles. When Steve had said, ‘The end’ with a sarcastic smile, Lovely Kim had brought up the possibility of medication. Whatever. They could load Steve up on Wellbutrin, Celexa, Prozac, or the latest miracle antidepressant marketed with images of smiling white people happily petting golden retrievers, but he still wasn’t gonna let anyone touch the mother fucking comforter! He’d left out the chapter about wearing the vampire bat pants every night (knowing damn well that Bucky’d worn them for _at least_ three nights before that), and the overly descriptive paragraph informing the reader that they smelled like dirty, sweaty balls. If Steve had told her that he wasn’t planning on washing them either, Lovely Kim would have sent him to a lovely locked ward where they’d hose him down like he’d been exposed to a massive cloud of radiation. And, let’s be honest, how the hell was he supposed to look for Bucky when his skin was getting scrubbed raw by first responders in hazmat suits?

So here he was, executing the second step of the ‘Self-Imposed Self-Loathing Protocol’: staring at the silver swirls and hearts dancing around the Russian letters on the leather-bound sketchbook. The purest version of Bucky had handed him this book, naked and glowing, _begging_ Steve to see...to understand... _fucking begging him_...and Steve had looked deep into his beautiful blue eyes and had said that his drawings were the ‘cutest things he’d ever seen’. A missing toe with exposed bone? According to Steve, super cute. Giant swollen blueberries infesting the bed around their friends like leeches? Cute as a sleepy kitten yawning in the sun. Blueberry eyes peering out of smiling cupcakes and wasted washing machines with bloodshot eyes? Fucking adorable! Even the realistic eyeball that Bucky’d drawn, severed optic nerve included, qualified, in Steve’s world, as ‘the cutest thing he’d ever seen’.

Steve flipped open the book, quickly landing on Bucky’s cheesy macaroni frame and the most obvious sentence in the entire world…

 

_No matter what happens, Stevie. I love you._

 

Every poorly written soap opera had used some variant of that line, and Steve had fucking missed it. It was devastating.

Letting his eyes glaze over, he watched the words peeling off the page and expanding into a swarm of stinging letters. He invited it. Bucky’s letters jamming their sharp ends into Steve’s face meant that he was coming: the glitching ghost with the silent scream.

He liked to stand next to his dresser, opening and closing the top drawer for no reason at all. Maybe Steve’s mother had shown him that trick? Perhaps they’d been hanging out in some sort of ghost lounge, chatting over fresh squeezed lemonade about how Steve sucked at laundry? Laughing about how he’d never learned how to sort the lights from the darks? But, unlike his mother’s probing questions about building a home, this Bucky never made a sound. He just stood there, completely naked, opening and closing the drawer with his mouth stretched into a perpetually silent scream; sometimes for _hours._ Steve could creep out of the house to drive through Rumlow territory with Frank, search the 24-Hour Coney Islands with Sam, or kick the shit out of irritatingly cheerful playground equipment, and then stumble back into the room at two in the morning to find Bucky still there, mouth distorted, his ghostly hands opening, closing...opening, closing the drawer.

Tonight, Bucky’s translucent form seemed to be flickering more than usual; glitching as the letters from the sketchbook re-formed on his perfectly curved back.

 

_No matter what happens, Stevie. I love you._

 

God dammit! Could Bucky have screamed any louder!? Steve slammed the book shut and stood up.

“I’m sorry,” Steve gasped as the words shifted into a new sentence.

 

          _Stevie, I love you. No matter what happens._

 

Opening, closing...opening, closing.

“Baby, I miss you so much.”

 

          _I love you. No matter what happens, Stevie._

 

Opening, closing...opening, closing.

“Tell me, please, sweetheart. Just tell me...” Steve drifted off, taking a step to stand directly in the center of his designated rectangle as he watched the letters morph and stack along the ghost’s spine.

          " _I tried to."_

Bucky had known that something bad was going to happen. That much had become painfully clear. But Steve hadn’t listened when there’d been a real voice to hear.

“Tell me where to find you,” Steve begged, desperate to touch, to wrap his hands around him and feel something solid. “I’ll fix everything if you just come back to me.”

He lurched forward, but as soon as Steve’s foot crossed the perimeter, Bucky flickered out completely, leaving nothing but an open drawer. And, just like all the nights before, Steve couldn’t make himself close it.

Dropping back down in the middle of the comforter, Steve opened the sketchbook to the first clean page, ripping the letters out of the air and scribbling down word after word with harsh, jagged lines; laying out all of his sins for the next time Bucky appeared...

  


It’s the little things

Minutia screaming in your absence

the trail of breadcrumbs visible from space.

 

Your sudden distaste for things once loved

Whipped cream pancakes sprinkled with dots of precious blue,

a bowl of fruit turned upside-down.

Black button eyes countered by pinprick centers

their vacillation begging to be seen.

Toxic rushes sold as joy, dirty jokes burying the smell of dirt, and the sex…

dammit...the sex.

 

Buckets of clever misdirection

being hustled on our street.

Sleight of hand with three cups and a ball,

losing a game,

I didn’t know enough to play.

 

Secrets hidden in plain sight

Missing toes in pools of red, purple finding favor over the reality of blue, and eyes...

blueberries...everywhere.

 

The sparkle of your glitter and gold was blinding

the act of loving overtaking the art of knowing,

and my ribbons of black silk, wrapped in worship around your limbs,

did nothing to keep you safe.

 

Hours ticking into days

Days piling into weeks

Each unbearable second driving your letters deeper...

 

If only I’d noticed the little things,

we’d still be home.

 

Words. Fuck words! Steve slammed the book shut and wiped at his face. Words and tears spewed out in front of an audience of nobody, and Bucky’s toys were _all_ staring at him! The faces made in Vietnam factories from non-toxic plastics mocking him as he scribbled nonsense that did _nothing_ and solved _nothing_! The molded faces that Bucky loved so much all swiveling their necks in unison to show Steve how truly unwelcome he was in this space. Frozen expressions dripping with hatred: the Carl Pop with two eyes, the Carl pop with one, Harley Quinn with her plastic asscheeks, and the Joker...Jared Leto with the green hair and silver teeth ruling over them all. Quickly grabbing his black hoodie out of the southeast corner of his rectangle, Steve jumped up and pulled it on, flipping up the hood to hide his inferior blond from the Joker’s brilliant green. For christ’s sake, even the Joker was a better boyfriend than Steve! But Jared’s wasn’t the worst face in the room. No, the worst was on the wall at the foot of Bucky’s bed, lovingly pinned up with thumbtacks shaped like hearts.

The very first time that Steve had walked into Bucky’s room, bloody and dazed, he’d seen the ‘Velvet Goldmine’ poster immediately. He might have been completely out of it, confused about where he was and how he’d gotten there, but that poster had shouted, ‘This is a place where boys can be beautiful together’ loud and clear. Even though he hadn’t said a damn word, some kind of spark in Steve’s stomach had whispered, ‘I think I’d like to stay’.

Snatching up his backpack, Steve threw it on the bed, facing them as he started shoving his shit in the bag with big, ugly tears streaming down his face. Two beautiful boys: Curt Wild whispering ‘the curves of your lips rewrite history’ into Brian’s open mouth as the tips of their fingers touched; the echoes of their cinematic words taunting Steve, rubbing it in that they were together in the frame while Steve was alone, shoving a stuffed Panda into his fucking backpack! Without Bucky, Lil Panda was just fake fur stuffed with cotton. Without Bucky, the plastic dolls were just plastic. Without Bucky, Steve didn’t feel beautiful.

Before he knew it, Steve was past Natasha’s closed door and had stumbled down the stairs, sliding into the kitchen for the first time in days. He couldn’t stay in this house one second longer! He didn’t fucking belong here.

“Steve, what are you doing?” Mr. Barnes mumbled, not putting any effort into sounding like he gave a shit.

“Where’s the garbage bags?” Dropping to his knees, Steve threw open the cabinets under the sink. Windex, Lysol, bleach, dish soap, paper towels…no fucking bags…

“Steve. Stop.”

Mr. Barnes was leaning against the counter with a mug of coffee next to his hand, and Steve wondered how long he’d been standing there staring at the giant pile of mail thrown next to the microwave? There were big bags under his eyes, his shirt was half untucked, he hadn’t shaved, and he didn’t move an inch when Steve accidentally spilled a box of baking soda across the black and white tiles.

Extra sponges, vinegar, fire extinguisher...why the hell couldn’t he find the fucking bags!?

“Steve,” Mr. Barnes said softly as he knelt down and handed Steve an entire box of Hefty Bags. “You have to stop.”

“No, I don’t.”

The two of them stood up simultaneously, their feet mingling in the pile of white powder, and Steve turned to face him...to _really_ face Bucky’s father for the first time. In that moment, Steve realized that Phil Barnes had aged ten years in ten days.

“I don’t belong here,” Steve started, setting his jaw. “I’ve been lost in some fantasy land where Bucky’s gonna show up at any second...skipping through the front door like this nightmare never happened...but...being in his room without him...I can’t. It’s not right.”

Phil Barnes said nothing.

“I don’t deserve sandwiches and passive aggressive potato chips when none of this would have happened if I hadn’t...” Steve drifted off. If he hadn’t _what?_ Gotten off watching Bucky sucking Tequila out of his belly button when he was supposed to be keeping him safe? If he hadn’t driven blindly to Bucky’s house expecting, not _asking,_ for his support escaping from Alexander? Or, was it further back? Steve bit the inside of his cheek so hard that it brought tears to his eyes. Was it the dance? Was homecoming the crossroad that had destined Bucky to crash? Was it the first time they’d kissed? If Steve hadn’t accepted Bucky’s comforting mountain of frozen peas, if he’d just let Bucky take his pillow and blanket to sleep on the couch instead of asking him to share the bed, Bucky might be hunched over the little kitchen table right now, shoving french fries dipped in way too much ketchup into his mouth while Natasha rolled her eyes at his bad table manners.

Looking at the empty chairs, Steve spoke without question. “I never should have asked Bucky to join the swim team.”

“Steve, you can’t think like that. It was Bucky’s choice...”

“Stop,” he interrupted. “I can think whatever I want. _I’m_ the one who put Bucky directly into Brock Rumlow’s crosshairs. Me! So, everything after Brock attacked him at the dance is my fault: the lies, the drugs, the stupid choices. You trusted me to love your son, to take care of him, and I let him disappear!”

“None of that’s true,” Mr. Barnes mumbled.

“The hell it’s not. He could be…” Steve choked on the word. “Bucky could be _dead._ You know it. I know it. And you and Natasha shouldn’t have to watch me walk around this house, standing in all the places where Bucky should be, when it was my horrible decisions that got us here.”

“Steve, this is where you belong. Bucky would want you to stay.” Sighing, Mr. Barnes pinched the bridge of his nose before tossing the mug in the sink with a clatter. “ _I_ want you to stay.”

“You sure about that? The look on your face says otherwise. And that’s fine. It’s how you _should_ feel. That’s why I’m leaving.”

“Steve, I’m not kicking you out.”

“No, you’re far too kind for that.” He tucked the box of garbage bags under his arm and backed away, his feet pulling the white powder across the checkers on the floor. “I’m sure Tony will let me crash at his house until I figure something else out. Thank you for everything you’ve done for me. I’m grateful. You’ve taught me what a real father is supposed to be, and I wish...god, I wish that everything was different and that I’d been worthy of this family, but I’m not. And I want to be very clear, Mr. Barnes. This isn’t me giving up. I’ll _never_ give up. Until Bucky’s safe where he belongs, I won’t stop.”

Shaking his head, Mr. Barnes almost slipped in the spill. “That’s the detectives’ job, Steve. You have school and the team…”

“I don’t give a shit about the team! Are you kidding me? _Bucky_ is the most important thing in my life! I know you probably can’t understand that, or you think I’m an idiot for believing that I could possibly know what love is at this age, but knowing Bucky, even for such a short amount of time…” Steve paused. He had to get this right. He had to make Bucky’s father understand. “Your son changed me, Mr. Barnes. Every second in his presence is a gift... to me, to you, to everyone he comes in contact with. Bucky was there for me over and over, and I need to do right by him. I need to bring him home.”

*

  


It took Steve less than five minutes to shove all of his worldly possessions into a single garbage bag, and two minutes to stuff the stinky comforter into another; tying the plastic knot twice to hide his secret. Seven minutes to erase himself from Bucky’s room, to become homeless...no, that wasn’t true at all. Steve had lost his home ten days ago at that party; their foundation devoured by rotting pumpkins and tequila ghouls.  

He took a deep breath before shouldering his backpack and grabbing hold of the bags with his moldy cast. Addressing the crowd of plastic faces, and the paper ones made of ivory and gold, Steve whispered, “For better or for worse, I’m going to find him. I promise.”

When he walked out the door, the top drawer remained open.

  


**Day 11- Wednesday, November 9th.**

Steve was at lunch. Writing not eating. He’d shoved down his chicken sandwich in less than five minutes. Food was fuel. Nothing more. His Economics notebook had become a historical document, cataloguing all the shit.

 

_11/09/2016  I’m pissed. More than usual. Furious actually. Why? Well, after Dale let me in this morning, I just happened to run into the brand new photography exhibit. It’s set up in the middle of the front lobby, so it’s pretty hard to miss! Daisy’s pictures of Bucky and Clint’s fucked up love story, along with Bucky’s picture of Skinner, Daisy, and Clint laughing, are hanging front and center like a goddamn memorial! But the fucking kicker? The thing that made me rip them off the display? There was a fucking sign that said ‘We miss you, Bucky’! I tore that shit in half and threw it in the pool. What the fuck were they thinking!? I talked to Daisy yesterday and she didn’t say shit about it! I swear to god, nobody’s mourning Bucky when he’s not…_

 

“God fucking damn it!” Steve scrawled a line across the page, hard enough to rip it, then threw the entire book over Sam’s head at the glass window.

He must have yelled really loud, because Tony dropped his sandwich along with his jaw, a piece of romaine lettuce dangling from his chin as Clint fell backwards off his seat.

“What the fuck, Steve!?” Clint screamed. He’d been eating one of Daisy’s cupcakes, which had landed upside-down in the middle of the ‘Metallica’ logo on his t-shirt; pink frosting decorating the empty sockets of an angry skull. “Can’t I have _one goddamn day_ where you don’t mess up my fucking life with your bullshit!?”

Steve set his jaw because the entire lunchroom had stopped to stare; whispering, pointing, Natasha slipping out the door... but none of that mattered, because it was true. Steve _had_ fucked up Clint’s life, and now he was lying on the floor with a minefield of half eaten french fries scattered around him, flinging pink frosting off his chest with a vicious sneer.

You see, ‘Clint Barton’ might have shown up to school every day with his hacked up hair, sitting in his usual spot at lunch to joylessly steal Ezra’s sweet potato fries or half of Skinner’s salami sandwich, but Steve knew that the person Clint used to be wasn’t _really_ there. It was in the sneer; cold, calculated, twitching with the words he wasn’t saying. It was in the way the weight was dropping off his already lean body, despite Daisy’s never ending stream of Moon Pies and Zebra Cakes. And it was in the way Clint got to his feet and stripped off the frosting covered t-shirt.

Standing in front of hundreds of people, wearing nothing but a pair of ripped up jeans and a beat up pair of oxblood boots, ‘Clint Barton’ calmly set the shirt on his best friend’s empty seat, leaning in close before whispering, “It should’ve been you.”

Pink frosting smeared across the floor. A half eaten cupcake crumbling out of its wrapper. Heavy boots stomping towards the door. Tony’s voice...then Peggy’s...maybe Sam’s...

A strong hand gripped Steve’s shoulder, solid, sure...

“Hey, man.” Sam had picked the notebook off the floor, and he gently placed it into Steve’s limp hands. A crushed M&M had gotten stuck to the cover, the green shell obliterated so the chocolate guts were leaking out…

It seemed so long ago that Bucky had been gumdrops and taffy, candy necklaces and M&Ms...

Sam’s voice came from far away when he said, “Steve, c’mon, let’s go get some air.”

  


**Day 12- Thursday, November 10th.** **10:45 am**       

Steve wasn’t planning on going back to the cafeteria anytime soon. It didn’t feel right. Nothing did. He couldn’t sit at the end of that long table, surrounded by old friends who didn’t fit like they used to and new ones who felt borrowed and betrayed...he just couldn’t. Instead, he’d turned the combination lock on Bucky’s locker, 32-5-57, to look for the key to the roof. It had taken a while to root through the mess of papers, dog-eared books, and empty Coke cans, but Steve had finally found it buried beneath a rotting donut; the remnants of its rainbow sprinkles covered with dark green mold. Steve had almost puked, the oatmeal and coffee he’d forced down that morning hitting the back of his throat, but it hadn’t been the disintegrating sugar or the mold that had twisted his stomach... it had been the missing bite.

Leaving it to rot, Steve had grabbed the key and slammed the locker before he’d headed upstairs to Bucky’s secret ladder. He’d never climbed it without Bucky waiting for him at the top.

Now, standing on the very edge of the ledge that ran around the roof, Steve wiggled forward until the toes of his grey Vans were hanging half an inch over the side. Countless yellow taxis were driving this way and that, swarming like bees on the street below, and it was heartbreaking to think that Bucky could be riding in the back of any one of them. If Steve jumped, maybe synchronicity would make him land on the roof of the right one? Wouldn’t that be ironic?

He raised his right foot, balancing as the ice cold wind whipped across his face. Winter had reared its ugly head early this year, roaring in last night with three inches of perfect packing snow and a wind chill hovering just above zero. Bucky’s kingdom was completely covered; the black tar, the shiny air conditioner, his chimney backdrop, the bricks, Bucky’s green plastic throne...all hidden, just like the king himself. Switching feet, Steve growled as the ravens flew by at eye level. They’d shown up on his pre-dawn drive this morning, flying full speed past his car in opposite directions. It was confusing as fuck, and it pissed him off. He didn’t need this subpar symbolic bullshit right now!

“Go away!” he hollered. But they didn’t. And the next time they buzzed past his head, their discordant paths crossing within inches of one another as they rolled onto their sides, Steve could see that their eyes were fucking gone! “Do you hear me!? I’m not following you anymore!”

Closing his eyes, Steve let himself drift into the dream. If Bucky were here, they’d be whipping snowballs at each other across the rooftop in an all-out war, exploding the perfectly packed snow off the backs of their winter coats as they tried to duck and cover. Steve would dump snow on Bucky’s head, tackling him and rubbing it around until he looked like a shaggy, wet dog, then he’d smother his rosy red cheeks with sloppy kisses. They could find so much comfort from laughing together at the simplicity of snow...but Bucky wasn’t here, and the truth of the matter was: Steve had never seen Bucky’s footprints in the snow.

His leg was cramping, threatening to give out, but as tempting as the ground was, Steve opened his eyes and stepped away from the edge. He wanted the chance to feel Bucky’s chilly skin against his nose. He wanted to shove a handful of snow down the back of Bucky’s jeans. He wanted to be strong...he _had_ to be strong. He had to breathe. Just breathe.

Carefully sinking down to sit in the snow, Steve let his legs dangle over the edge as he took the lid off the plastic container he’d set next to him. He didn’t feel like eating, but the pounds of muscle Steve was adding from swimming an extra hour every day and lifting outrageous amounts of weight almost every afternoon demanded to be fed. Using his fingers, he stuffed the chicken breast Tony’s chef had prepared for him into his mouth, trying to ignore the taste. It was delicious, but Steve _hated_ the feeling of having a chef cooking for him again. After Lucky Charms and tater tots, it felt like a step backwards. Chewing as quickly as he could, Steve swallowed, chewed, swallowed, then dug into the mound of brown rice with the thoughtfully provided plastic spoon. Steamed broccoli. Chewed and swallowed. Avocado slices to help his cells knit and mend. Chewed and swallowed. Maybe as a distraction...more likely in preparation for war.

Yesterday, after school, things had changed; sharpening into an undeniable reality...the beauty of lies destroyed by an inevitable revelation.

Daisy had cornered him by his locker after the final bell. At first, Steve had thought she was coming to ream him out for the ‘mysteriously’ missing photographs, but that had been the last thing on her mind. She’d been out of breath, dragging her faux fur coat on the ground behind her with a wild look in her eyes...

  
  


“I know who it is!” Daisy yelled, running into Steve’s chest and dropping her metal lunchbox on his toe. It was the He-Man one, and it fucking hurt. “I saw the tie, Steve! It’s TJ! He’s wearing the tie!”

“What?”

“The tie in the drawing! The one about the sleepover! TJ just came in the art room to give Ms. Jaeger something, and, I swear to god, it’s the same one that Bucky drew! Navy and maroon stripes. I know the cops interviewed him about the drugs, and he denied even talking to Bucky since homecoming, but Clint saw those texts from him on Bucky’s phone. I’m sorry I didn’t put it together until I saw the tie, but, Steve, Bucky drew TJ curled around his feet. It’s him!”

 

 

Sometimes so many emotions fight for position that you default to basic instinct. Fight or flight. The instant Daisy’s words had registered, Steve’s brain had kicked into the primal setting for ultra-violence. Without thinking, he’d turned to run up the stairs, pushing through the sea of students on their way down and knocking over at least a dozen like dominos. His objective had been singular: catch TJ before he escaped from the parking garage. TJ always parked his silver BMW in the same spot: halfway down the upper ramp between two concrete support beams. People left it open for him, like it had a fucking sign that read ‘closeted cokehead’ or something. Careening down the ramp and dodging all the cars trying to back out of their spots at the same time, Steve had lost his shit when he’d skidded to a stop in front of TJ’s empty space. Lost. His. Shit.

Sighing, Steve spit the last bite of chicken over the edge and watched the lump fall to the sidewalk below; a five-star treat for the fat pigeons or the annoying ravens. What fucking ever. Right now, the only thing that Steve cared about was figuring out why Bucky’d carefully...almost lovingly...drawn TJ Campbell wrapped tightly around his cartoon feet.  

After he’d stopped screaming at the empty parking spot, Steve had tried to get answers; breaking every single traffic law as he’d ‘driven’ to TJ’s house. He’d been there exactly once. Early freshman year for a birthday party. But he still knew where the house was. It was hard to fucking miss. TJ’s family lived in a big stately brownstone on The Upper East Side that had a modern glass addition stuck to the side like a parasite, fitting for a right wing Senator who buried his bigotry in addendums. Steve had slammed on the brakes of his Prius right in front of the door, which, apparently, is considered a threatening action when executed in close proximity to the residence of a New York State Senator. He hadn’t even made it halfway out of the car when two armed security guards had put a swift end to Plan A. Politician’s sons, it seemed, enjoyed the luxury of big men, with even bigger guns, to help hide their secrets. The suits had fed Steve a bunch of bullshit that he’d been sadly all too familiar with: ‘Mr. Campbell’s not here. You aren’t on his authorized visitor list. No, we won’t call him. Get back in your vehicle and leave. Now.’

God, it was cold and the chicken was sitting in his stomach like a rock. Steve shivered as he pulled his phone out of the pocket of his grey leather jacket. He didn’t own a winter coat...just the scarf Natasha had bought him...but he’d left that in the bottom of his garbage bag suitcase for obvious reasons. 10:47. Seventy-three minutes left until he executed Plan B and _finally_ got his hands on the boy in the tie. Swinging his feet around and planting them in the rooftop snow, Steve ran everything that he and Tony had come up with last night through his head one more time...

  
  


After the total failure of Plan A, Steve had moved directly on to Plan B, which, unfortunately, required Tony’s full attention since he was the one doing all the work. Steve had been impatiently bouncing a tennis ball against the wall of Tony’s workshop for half an hour...catching it one handed every time...but Tony kept spinning around in his desk chair and picking cherries out of his drink like they had all the time in the world.

Couch surfing at Tony’s was better than being in Bucky’s room, but it was exhausting in an entirely different way. Crashing at Tony’s meant crashing _with_ Tony. Pretty self-explanatory. Steve had claimed the brown leather couch in Tony’s workshop, even though his feet hung over the armrests and Tony played horrible classic rock all the fucking time while he burned shit with lasers. But there was no way in hell that Steve was sleeping in one of the guest rooms! In fact, he’d refused to even so much as set foot on the fourth floor. The neon jellyfish were up there, floating in lazy circles in front of the door to the red and gold bedroom where he’d made love to Bucky for the very first time. Steve slept on the couch because their stings would be too much to bear.

Stretching his arm backwards, Steve aimed the ball at the Zeppelin poster above Tony’s head, nailing Robert Plant’s seventies lion mane. “C’mon, Tony! Hurry up! I know damn well that you hack into Eaton’s server all the time!”

“Mr. Rogers. Can’t you see that I haven’t finished my Manhattan yet? Cocktail hour comes before cyber crime. _Everybody_ knows that.” Tony tipped up his glass and drained the final drops of amber liquid.

“That’s your second drink.”

“Yeah, Applebees has dollar drinks before five. God, you’re such an amateur.”

“It’s six.”

Tony rolled his eyes and fiddled with the cherry stem hanging out of his mouth. “You should unlace your red Keds and stay awhile. You live here now, it’s okay to take off your cardigan.”

Steve was about to throw the tennis ball _at_ Tony’s head, but he _finally_ rolled his chair in front of his main computer and started doing...something. Tony’s universe was so far over Steve’s head that he’d stopped trying to understand his language a long time ago.

“This is totally illegal,” Tony quipped, raising his eyebrows. But he kept right on typing. “By the way, can you tie a cherry stem in a knot with your tongue? I’ve been trying, and I just can’t make it happen! My lack of tongue coordination is incredibly frustrating. Lolo Kitty told me that I need to up my rimming game...not that cherry stem manipulation is anything like ass licking, but…” Clicking his mouse with a flourish, Tony spit the stem across his desk and exclaimed, “There, I’m in! The law has been broken. You call me Bonnie, and I’ll call you Clyde.”

Launching the neon green ball at the center of the couch, Steve jogged around the desk to lean over Tony’s shoulder. “What does it say?”

“Lots. This is very informative shit. But, first, I have a _very_ important question. Are _you_ good at rimming?”

“Tony...”

“Hey,” he snipped, tapping Steve’s newly freed arm, “...are you ever gonna properly thank me for sawing off your disgusting, moldy cast? I’m surprised a lifetime supply of penicillin didn’t spill out when I cracked that thing. Capital G, Gross. Seriously, what the hell happened to your tiny golden hairs!? Your arm looks like a mole; creepy, weird, and blind!”

“Are you done yet?”

“I’m just saying that a thank you card would be nice...or a cookie bouquet...I prefer white chocolate macadamia nut. It’s underappreciated. I’d also accept a rimming lesson. I’m sure my 3-D printer could make a realistic asshole.”

“Tony!”

“Fine,” Tony whined, “I just really want a fucking cookie.” Leaning closer to the screen, he broke the news. “This says TJ Trainspotting was constantly skipping first hour in October, and there’s a fuckton of unexcused tardies all over the place, but, drumroll please, nothing lately.” Pointing at a date, he continued, “Look, ever since ground zero, our suspect has morphed into a model student. He’s been on time for everything.”

“Check Bucky’s.”

“Jeez, Steve. Show some emotion or something! No, scratch that. You break shit when you connect with your inner child. By the way, I’ve changed my mind. We aren’t like Bonnie and Clyde _at all._ You’re back to calling me Tony...or ‘handsome devil’ if you prefer...but I’ve decided you’re that bossy motherfucker on NCIS, the one from ‘Summer School’, and I’m the oddly attractive tech savvy girl with the pigtails and the super tall goth boots that they keep locked in the basement. I have it on good authority that Abby is _way_ smarter than everyone else. She simply _prefers_ listening to techno/metal in her lab and doin’ her science thang.”  

Steve gritted his teeth in anticipation as Tony lined up Bucky’s attendance with TJ’s in a new window. Sam had told him that Mr. Kuzinski had stopped marking Bucky absent in first hour, but the tardies...Steve’s heart sank...the tardies matched. _Every single one._

Pushing his chair backwards, Tony ran over Steve’s foot like a speed bump before blowing out a long breath. “Well, damn.”

Hundreds of horrible images ran through Steve’s head as he collapsed in the middle of the couch in a daze; too many to register. Skin. Lips. Secrets. Lies. Drugs. Sex. Love.

The tennis ball was jammed under his thigh and it hurt like a bitch, but Steve didn’t move to pull it out. He couldn’t. The only motion his body permitted was grabbing the sketchbook off the end table. He’d put it there in case he needed to look...to confirm that the tiny body with the striped tie was TJ. No. That was complete and utter bullshit. He’d set it there so he could torture himself when the time came. He might be stupid, but the second TJ’s name had poured out of Daisy’s mouth, Steve had already known. Pressing his palm over Bucky’s Russian ‘I love you’, Steve told himself that Bucky had written those silver words wholeheartedly, despite his secrets.

“Hey, sad puppy. What ‘cha lookin’ at?” Tony flopped down next to him, empty drink in hand. “I know we just confirmed that your milk carton boyfriend was gettin’ some right wing cake on the side, but that scowl’s off the chart.”

“Bucky drew him.”

There was no reason to look at TJ curled around the boy Steve loved...every last detail was already burned onto his retinas like a technicolor nightmare...but he opened the book anyway and tossed it on Tony’s lap. “There he is. TJ Campbell; dead center, impossible to miss...unless you’re a self-absorbed fool like me.”

Unbuttoning his Gucci vest to reveal the dabbing cat shirt below (it seemed to be Tony’s new thing...vests, not dabbing cats), he turned the picture to look at it from different angles, squishing up his nose. “Yeah, that tie screams Closeted Senator’s Son: fashionable, but not _too_ fashionable, if you know what I mean. Which you do. You sure don’t want a drink? I’ll even make it for you. Full service bar.”

“He was trying to tell me,” Steve whispered. “Whatever it was, whatever was wrong...Bucky was hiding it in plain sight.”

 

  
  
Steve chucked the empty plastic container at the air conditioner, hating that the hulking metal cube was covered with undisturbed snow. Despite their shaky standing, Steve would kill to see Clint perched on top in a cloud of smoke, jingling the bells of his jester cap to amuse his king, and Bucky below him on his plastic throne, radiant with a summertime smile. But there was only clear air and a plastic spoon sticking out of the snow.

If TJ Campbell had _anything_ to do with Bucky’s disappearance...if he’d hurt _one_ hair on Bucky’s head... Steve would rip him apart.

  


**Day 12-**   **11:58 am**

Ambushing someone. That was what Steve was doing. He’d snuck out of fourth hour a few minutes early and was squatting in the corner of the back stairwell like he was on a Black Op’s mission, counting the seconds until the bell rang. Biting the skin around his fingernails, Steve tried to remind himself that he just wanted to talk. Pay no attention to the man hiding behind the door, thinking about tearing your throat out with his teeth...

After the unfathomable success of Plan B, Steve had given himself twenty minutes to cry on Tony’s surprisingly sympathetic shoulder, then had asked him to pull up TJ’s class schedule. Plan C. Tony had only agreed to do it if Steve ‘whipped him up another Manhattan, extra cherries’, but the thought of Bucky’s button eyes had Steve thinking twice about fueling the habits of the people he loved...and Steve _really_ loved Tony. Honestly, he didn’t know what he’d do without him. So, Steve had thrown two ice cubes in the bottom, stuffed the entire glass full of cherries, and had dumped Sprite and the tiniest splash of whiskey on top.

Even though Tony’s mouth had called Steve a ‘dick’, his soft brown eyes had said ‘I get it, dick’. It had been a good first step. They’d shared the mountain of cherries while strategically picking out TJ’s most remote class, determining that he’d most likely exit the Physics room in the back corner of the third floor and take the low traffic stairwell to his computer class on level two. It had all been very technical...deadly serious...a plan fueled by cherries, fear, and rage.

Suddenly, the bell rang, and Steve jumped to his feet, his heart rate out of control. He stayed behind the door, letting it conceal him as the mob of normal teenagers, doing normal teenage things, jogged past him down the steps. Kids shoving phones with colorful cases in front of their noses. Cheerleaders giggling with their asses hanging out the bottoms of their skirts. Peter sliding dangerously down the handrail as Scott cheered him on. A kid dropping a bag of Cheetos that were instantly pulverized underneath normal teenage feet. Steve had never felt that kind of lightness... _ever_...and the fact that he was about to ambush the son of a State Senator pretty much pushed him past the point of no return.

After the initial flood, the door swung back on its hinges, and Steve figured that he and Tony had guessed wrong. Shit.

The second Steve gave up, TJ pushed through the door with his backpack slung over one shoulder, his tight black jeans rolled up a little too high to show off his heavy black oxfords, and a green and tan striped sweater hugging his lean chest. He was staring down at his phone...texting...and he slipped a little on an unsmashed Cheeto. Steve hadn’t seen him in a while, or payed attention if he had...he wasn’t sure...but his brown hair was long enough that it had a slight curl around his ears; just like Bucky’s drawing. The mere sight of him made Steve’s blood boil.

It took three strides to yank TJ backwards by his bag, the force knocking the phone out of his hands so that it clattered down the stairs. Steve shoved him against the brick wall, holding him there by his stupid sweater. It was fucking cashmere.

TJ’s hazel eyes were huge. “Steve, what are you...”

Not giving him a chance to finish that sentence, Steve growled, “You’re a liar!”

“You’re hurting me,” TJ yelped, and something in the sound made Steve relax his grip, but he didn’t let go. There was no way in hell Steve was letting go now! 

“You lied to the cops!” Steve snarled. “I fucking know you did!”

TJ kicked his feet at the wall, trying to pry Steve’s hands off his sweater with his thin arms, but he was no match for Steve. Not even close.

“What are you talking about? Get off of me!”

“You were texting him!”

The struggling lessened beneath his hand as TJ’s flailing turned into pathetic slaps and shoves. “I was texting my mom! I swear, I don’t know what you’re talking...”

“No!” Steve snapped, twisting the sweater tighter in his fist. “Clint saw your name on Bucky’s phone!”

There were tears in the corners of TJ’s eyes, and his hands had fallen to his sides. Steve was stretching out his sweater. It didn’t feel right...

“Yeah, I texted him. The cops know that!” TJ landed one pathetic kick to Steve’s shin. It was like he wasn’t even trying. “It was a few times after the shit with Brock. He never texted me back. Please, don’t hurt me.”

Sniffing, TJ turned his face as far away from Steve as he could. When he twisted his neck, Steve caught sight of the remnants of a bruise on his temple; barely blue with sickly yellow edges. This wasn’t how this was supposed to go...

Watching his Adam’s apple bob, Steve realized that in all the years he’d known TJ Campbell, they’d never been this close. He was taller than Steve thought...skinny, yeah...but they were almost eye to eye; the same height as Bucky. A whimper escaped Steve’s throat as the unwelcomed questions arrived. Had Bucky stood next to him like this? Closer? Had Bucky noticed his freckles? Had he been close enough to taste them?

The bell rang, and Steve let go; his fingerprints staining the cashmere as TJ slid down the wall. A noise that sounded like a snicker escaped when his ass hit the floor. “So you’re _not_ gonna hit me?” he muttered. “Must be my lucky day.”

“What did you say?”

TJ stared up at Steve through lowered lashes with the slightest upward curve in the corners of his mouth, his tiny brown curls twisting in all directions. “Nothing,” he mumbled. “I didn’t say a word.”

Slow blinks, heavy lids, the horror of pinprick eyes...Steve had seen that look before!

“Are you high!? Jesus fucking christ, are you high right now!?” Steve kicked at his oversize shoe, and TJ’s leg slid sideways like a ragdoll, the muscle and bone replaced by dirty cotton stuffed into the seams of his skinny jeans. “What the hell are you on?”

“What _aren’t_ I on?” TJ’s head rolled backward, and he had the nerve to smile! This little fucker just fucking _smiled!_ Without thinking, Steve surged forward and slapped him across the face!

The sharp sound echoed down the empty stairwell, past the Cheeto crumbs and lost pencils, and exploded like a grenade. The regret was immediate and brutal as TJ slowly touched his cheek, letting out the smallest gasp before pulling up his long legs and folding himself inward like a child hiding behind a curtain.

It was all wrong.

“Shit,” Steve whispered, sinking to his knees in the dirt and orange dust to reach his hand out...to touch...to comfort...but he pulled it back at the last second. “Oh my god, TJ, I don’t know why I did that! Jesus christ, I’m so sorry. Are you okay?”

“It’s fine, Steve,” he mumbled from between his knees. “I’m used to it.”

“No, it’s not fine! I’ve been on the other side of that, and...” Steve snapped his mouth shut as reality hit…

He’d become Alexander.

“Can I tell you something?” TJ’s voice was quiet, calm, a stark contrast to the complete panic in Steve’s chest.

“I’m so sorry, TJ. Oh my god…”

“You’re right,” he interrupted, the tone of his voice making Steve’s voice seize in his throat. “I did talk to him...to Bucky…”

Words, even when expected, are crushing when said aloud. Bad news. Disappointment. The truth. It all sucked. Steve’s voice was shaking when he admitted, “I already know. I saw your attendance records. You and Bucky missed all the same classes.”

“You saw my attendance record?” TJ squished up his face and groaned, rubbing his nose on his knee, and moving in ways that were too fast and too slow at the same time. “Never mind,” he mumbled. “I’m sure it was Stark.”

TJ’s cheek was turning bright red and the shifting color smelled like chlorine and liquor; another brown haired boy branded with a handprint he didn’t deserve. Steve was no better than Brock.

“Was Bucky…” Steve drifted off. He hated past tense. Past tense negated hope. But he couldn’t bear to say ‘ _Is_ Bucky’. He just couldn’t. “Was Bucky cheating on me? Is that why you were skipping classes? To be together?” It hurt to ask, but not knowing hurt more. The unknown was turning Steve into a monster.

TJ dragged his long fingers over his face and rubbed his nose again. It was almost as red as his cheek. “No, Bucky wasn’t cheating on you. He loves you.”

He loves me. He loves me not. Steve wasn’t even sure it mattered anymore. He just wanted Bucky to be okay. It would destroy him, but someone else could tuck daisies into the loops of Bucky’s hair, as long as his hair still grew. Steve’s posture shrunk to match the concave curve of TJ’s shoulders before he asked, “And how would you know that?”

The answer was quick. Harsh. TJ’s sharp chin snapped up enough to give something away. “Because he told me! Are you really this stupid, Steve!?”

He started fiddling with the collar of his sweater, trying to fix what Steve had stretched out, but it was a hopeless cause. Stupid Steve Rogers ruined cashmere sweaters like he ruined lives. “I fucked up your sweater.”

“Oh, you like this sweater? Wanna see why I’m wearing it?” Reaching back, TJ quickly pulled it over his head and cast it aside, staring at Steve like a challenge. At first, Steve didn’t get it, but then he saw them curling around his bicep just below the sleeve of his black t-shirt: four distinct bruises with a fifth nestled in the crook of his arm. Two handprints from two different bullies. Steve had never been so ashamed.

“What? Don’t pretend you’re surprised,” TJ scoffed, rolling his arm back and forth so Steve could get a good look. “You’re not the only person around here who knows how to hide bruises.”

“Who…?” Steve shut up, because he already knew. He shut up because it might as well have been him.

TJ’s fingers unzipped his backpack and a little pill bottle appeared. “Do you ever wish you were someone else?” He twisted off the lid with his teeth. “I think about it a lot.” A tiny round pill dropped into the middle of his palm. “I watch people, you know. Trying to figure out if their lives are easier than mine.” He tossed the pill down his throat, then absently touched Brock’s bruises. Steve couldn’t move.

“Bucky told me...” TJ stopped and bit his bottom lip. The bottle was uncapped again and a second pill swallowed before he closed his eyes.

“Hey!” Steve shook his shoulder. It felt too sharp. “Finish that sentence!”

“I’ve wished that I was _you_ before. Like that time you punched Brock in Tony’s basement. That must have felt so good...” Slumping further down the wall, TJ’s eyes slipped shut again as his chin dropped lower and lower. “But I could never be you, Steve. Believe me, I’ve tried.”

There are times when you can tell that someone has something on the tip of their tongue, something that they want to say so badly, but they don’t. Steve could feel it. “TJ, please, if you know where he is...”

“Listen, Steve,” he interrupted. “I dunno what you want me to say. Brock really messed Bucky up, and you had your own shit going on. He just needed someone to talk to who understood. That’s all it was.”

Pointing at the bruises, Steve snapped, “Those are fresh, which means you’ve seen Brock...talked to him! Don’t lie to me, TJ! Did he do something to Bucky? Do you know what happened? Please!”

“Brock didn’t do this,” he muttered, rubbing his thumb along the crook of his arm. “It was someone you’ve never met.”

Steve stared into his pinprick eyes, the pupils shrinking in real time, and wondered why nobody had helped this kid. Why had this been allowed to happen? “And the drugs? Was Bucky getting them from you?”

Eyes blinked long and slow before TJ turned his sweater right side out and pulled it back over his head. It was backwards. “I mean, yeah, I hooked him up a few times. But that was it, Steve. I swear.”

There it was again, the slightest tick to TJ’s cheek. Steve didn’t like it. “Hooked him up with what?”

“You wanna list?” he scoffed, letting his knees fall open wide. “I dunno. Coke a couple times, some Adderall, a few Vicodins, nothing major.”

“What!? Are you fucking kidding me!?” The hair on Steve’s arms stood up, his ability to stay calm destroyed by that glib little comment. “You don’t think _cocaine_ is major!?”

“I mean, not from my point of view.”

Jesus christ! Steve couldn’t stand being this close to someone who was so fucking casual about giving Bucky _cocaine!_ He stood up to put some distance between them. Otherwise he was gonna shake TJ until he told Steve _everything_ , bruises and sad stories be damned. He wanted to know _every word_ that Bucky’d whispered into the shell of TJ’s ear! Words that Bucky hadn’t felt safe enough to whisper into Steve’s!

Breathing through his nose, Steve pretended that he was calm. He wasn’t. “What the fuck did you give him at Tony’s party!? Acid? E? MDMA?”

“I didn’t even talk to Bucky at the party!” TJ stood up too, wobbling on his feet as he defiantly adjusted his backwards sweater. “I saw him, yeah, he was hard to miss in that outfit, but you two were already putting on a show in the tent. I had nothing to do with it. In fact, those eyeball drinks made me sick and I left. Snug in my bed by one.”

“I’m gonna tell the cops.”

“What? That I use drugs?” He laughed outright as he shouldered his backpack and pushed off the wall. “Or that Bucky came to _me_ for help?”

“No, you little shit.” Steve stepped in front of him, blocking his path. “That you lied!”

TJ opened his mouth to say something as Steve crowded him against the iron rail; but when the door suddenly flung open, he snapped it back shut. Opening...closing…

It was Mrs. Flemming, the librarian, and her arms were loaded down with a stack of hardcover books. Of course she did a full stop when she saw musclebound Steve hulking over skinny TJ Campbell. Steve was gonna end up in the office...again.

“What’s going on!? Why aren’t you in class?” She squinted her eyes at Steve, who’d forgotten to back up. Their chests were almost touching. “Mr. Campbell, are you alright?”

It was a millisecond, but when TJ met Steve’s eyes before turning his head towards Mrs. Flemming, the look in them made Steve’s blood run cold...

Steve had watched a deer die once. Alexander’s driver had plowed right into it on the way to a press event upstate, and, even though his evil stepfather had been screaming at Steve to get back in the limo, he’d wandered into the muddy ditch and had witnessed the doe’s final moments. It had only taken a few minutes, but Steve had gotten close enough to see the fear in her eyes as she’d taken her last shaking breaths. TJ’s eyes...they transported him back to that ditch, his dress shoes getting ruined by the mud as the headlights flashed by. It was like TJ knew that he’d reached his end and there was absolutely nothing that anyone could do to stop it. Steve felt just like he had next to that two lane road, watching the creature’s chest expanding for the final time…

Afraid.

“Of course, I’m alright, Mrs. Flemming.” TJ gave her a sad little smile as he rested his hand on Steve’s shoulder like they were best friends. “I’m just really upset about Bucky, and Steve here was kind enough to update me on the case. It’s just really hard not knowing where he is…”

Her face softened as she adjusted her books; the manipulation unfolding in real time. “I understand, boys, and I’m so sorry. But you can’t be back here. TJ, head down to the counseling office. Mrs. McDaniels has made it perfectly clear that anyone having a hard time should go to her office. She’s much better equipped to help you. And, Steve, I can’t even imagine what you’re going through, but you’ve already missed so much school. You really need to be in class.”

They nodded in unison, TJ saying, “Absolutely,” at the same time as Steve said, “Yes, ma’am.”

“I’ll call to make sure you’ve both made it to where you’re supposed to be.” She tried to avoid the minefield of Cheetos as she started down the stairs, carefully stepping over TJ’s phone. “You have five minutes.”

Neither of them moved, the smile instantly falling off TJ’s face as he picked a piece of cashmere fuzz off of Steve’s shoulder. Holding it up on the tip of his finger for Steve to see, TJ waved it around like a tiny sea monkey for a second before hitting it with a puff of air. As it fell to the ground, TJ whispered, “You’re a talented liar.”

“Yeah, so are you.”

  


**Day 13- Friday, November 11th. 5:17 pm**

_11/11/16 Natasha drives too fast. She just swerved around the corner and made me get black pen all over my jeans. Guess that’s what I get for writing this shit down in the car. Whatever. I’m still writing because I’m a stubborn fuck. But this is important; horrible, scary, sad, but important. I need to get it all down on paper before I call Detective Judson. After yesterday’s shitshow with TJ, I needed a new plan. Plan C. Or is it D? I think it’s D. Recruit Frank and Natasha to follow TJ’s lying ass after school today. So, here we are, post mission. Castle called shotgun, and I didn’t want to drive, so now I’m getting carsick because I’m jammed into the backseat of my own Prius. It’s weird, I’ve never sat back here before, but I’m too upset to care. What we just saw...jesus. I can’t get it out of my head. God, I have to stop thinking like this! I just need the facts:_

_We tailed TJ to Chinatown, which was strange in itself, but then shit got real. He swerved into a narrow alley and parked between an old yellow building and a modern monstrosity covered in neon Karaoke signs. Reminders of Bucky are everywhere. Is it karma? God being a dick? Bucky had asked me to plan a karaoke outing for everyone...he was working on a top secret interpretation of Lionel Ritchie’s ‘Hello’. I never got to hear it. Maybe I never will. Stop! God! Stick to the fucking facts! TJ parked in front of a dumpster, Frank and I jumped out into moving traffic while Natasha circled the block. I hid behind a delivery truck with a direct line of sight, while Frank did some sort of parkour move and climbed onto a balcony across the street. It was scary. Does he do that regularly? He’s staring at Natasha right now, all crinkled brow intensity. I feel like that might be scary too. He better not try to make a move on her. Ugh, not the point. Fact: TJ got out, popped the collar on his beautifully tailored wool coat, messed around with his phone, then leaned against his car for 5 minutes. At that point, I was gonna signal Frank (or something), but he wasn’t in the same spot! I still don’t know where the fuck he went. Not gonna ask. Did I mention that Frank has a handgun in the waistband of his jeans? I saw it when he jumped up to grab the balcony. I’m sitting in a car, literally two feet away from a fucking gun right now! Not gonna ask about that either. Fact: Eventually, some young Asian guy in a busboy uniform showed up and handed over a bunch of little paper squares in exchange for a big wad of cash. I had no clue what the hell was happening, but, lucky for us, Frank Castle’s family is well versed in the NYC drug trade, seeing as they help control it. Frank taught me and Natasha a new vocabulary word: a ‘bundle’ is twelve individually wrapped packages of heroin. Jesus christ, Frank’s staring at me now…_

 

Slamming the pen on top of the page, Steve snapped, “What!?”

“Don’t put my name in your diary.”

Swerving into the loading zone in front of Frank’s building, Natasha shifted into park before the car had even stopped (fuck the transmission) and yelled, “ _That’s_ what you’re worried about?”

“I’m worried about a lot of shit,” Frank barked. “But if Steve’s writing about what just went down, my name can’t be in there.”

“Unfucking believable! This is my brother’s _life_ we’re talking about!”

Frank scrubbed his hand over his face and pushed open the door. “Listen, I’ll call in a few favors, do some digging. Even if TJ knows jack shit about Bucky, he’s still in way over his head.” Climbing out of the car, he turned back to say, “Keep your heads down. I’ll be in touch.”

Yeah, that sounded familiar.

Natasha squeezed her hands around the steering wheel as she pulled back into traffic. Her red polish was perfect, as was her lipstick, but Steve knew she was crumbling inside. Picking up the pen he asked, “Did you see the gun?”

“Yes.”

“But it’s worth it...having Frank on our side, right?”

“If he can find something the cops can’t...then maybe.”

The car seemed impossibly quiet as Steve finished his entry.

 

_Heroin. I can’t believe I’m writing that word. What if TJ got Bucky into that shit? What if that’s what happened to him!? Fuck! Finish the facts. After Chinatown, we followed TJ to a coffee shop on The Lower East Side. He sat at a little table by the front windows, spent 39 minutes on his laptop, drank two cups of coffee, then drove to his house and disappeared into the underground garage. That was the end of the mission. Another door closing without knowing where Bucky is. But I’ve realized something. I might want to strangle TJ Campbell, but he and I aren’t all that different. To put it in the most cliche way possible: I was high on love, shooting Bucky into my veins like candy colored ecstasy, blissfully rolling on waves of lust and desire._

_I have no right to judge._

  


**Day 15- Sunday, November 13th.**

_11/13/16  There’s nothing like being woken up at 1 am by Tony Stark. That’s all I’m saying about that. I’m too tired to write the details, but here’s the skeleton: Tony’s flopped across my legs sawing logs, my foot’s completely asleep, and Bucky’s ghost is screaming in the corner. I can almost hear him. One of Tony’s ‘Bucky Spies’ (his name, not mine) blew up his phone around 12:30, saying somebody who ‘sort of’ matched Bucky’s description had shown up around midnight. Tony, of course, ran in here like a maniac to show me the thread of completely useless texts. Now I’m wide awake while Tony’s snoring. Can an eighteen-year-old have sleep apnea? Sure sounds like it. Facts: The club was packed. The ‘Bucky Spy’ (Danny) was working the coat check, so he only saw ‘Possible Bucky’ from a distance. What caught his attention was the guy had snapped at the doorman in a foreign language. You see, on day five, Tony sent Bucky’s picture to every person he knows, including the hundreds of connections he has in NYC bars, clubs, concert venues, restaurants, petting zoos, whatever, and he included a very helpful description: ‘Dresses like it’s 1993 (Cobain, not Ace of Base), abnormally attractive, needs a haircut, dances like he’s making love, never shuts up, speaks fluent Russian. If found, call…’ I was pissed at first, but it got the word out so…Anyway, Danny heard something non-English, saw some long, dark hair, and that’s about it. He didn’t recognize the accent, which, come on! Russian’s pretty fucking distinctive! If you’ve seen one spy movie in your lifetime, you’ve heard a goddamn Russian accent! Facts: By the time Danny got to the door, the unidentifiable foreign guy was already lost in the crowd. The cashier and the doorman had some details, nothing concrete. It never is. Thick stubble, a heavy black ¾ length coat, a hundred dollar bill to smooth over the questionable ID, and...I don’t even wanna write the rest. I wanna close my eyes and try to sleep, but Tony’s taking up all the room and my brain won’t shut off. My therapist says writing things down will help calm my mind. She’s an idiot. If I put this in black and white it makes it more real, more true, and (god this is awful) I want it to be true! At least then I’d know Bucky’s alive! Fuck it. I’m writing it down. A bartender remembered the guy ordering two rounds of shots. ‘Possible Bucky’ had stood out because he’d tipped the bartender twenty bucks both times and had offered to blow him in the bathroom when he went on break. Danny showed him Bucky’s picture, but he said the guy had looked older. Tony didn’t tell me if the bartender took him up on it._

 

Steve wanted to hope, but it could have been anyone…

 

**Day 17-  Tuesday, November 15th.**

_11/15/16  News. Tony’s dad came into the workshop (he never comes into the workshop) to break the news around 7. Good or Bad? I don’t know. I’ve been locked in this stupidly opulent bathroom trying to decide for the past 45 minutes while launching spit wads into the toilet. It’s probably gonna clog when I flush it. That much I know for sure. I also know that my hands are numb. I know that it feels like I’m having a heart attack. I know that I hate birds. I know that every day gets worse. But I have news, dear diary, hot off the presses. Eloise, the Stark’s sous chef, noticed a phone lying next to the dumpster out back. I guess the garbage truck dropped the dumpster further away from the wall than usual and the rainbow heart phone case caught her attention. Real talk: not too many people have cases that say ‘I ‘heart’ boys’ with ‘boys’ crossed off and ‘Steve’ scrawled underneath in Sharpie, so go ahead and connect the fucking dots. She knew enough not to touch it, Howard was smart enough not to tell Tony and I until the cops had already processed everything and cleared out. No sim card, no battery, no fingerprints. Someone must have wiped it down, or maybe Bucky did it himself? It’s weird that someone took the whole thing apart, but then took the time to snap the case back on before throwing it away. Right? Nothing makes sense, and now I can’t stop picturing Bucky in a fucking dumpster covered with rotting food and rats! What if someone threw him away too?”_

 

“Steve-o!” Tony rapped his knuckles on the bathroom door, and Steve thudded his back against the wall, spitting a real juicy one at the towel rack. He was thankful that he wasn’t alone, taunted by the bouncing lights of a disco ball with nobody dancing underneath, but living with Tony was exhausting...as if he wasn’t already tired enough. “My Lolo Lollipop just called. He wants to do something cultural tonight. Opera or the Monster Truck Jam. I wasn’t really listening. But you’re invited. We can squeeze you into one of my dad’s tuxes and pretend you’re our stuffy chaperone. It’ll be your job to keep my wandering hands out of Lowkey Loki’s pants.”

Ignoring him, Steve scribbled down the most important sentence.

 

_The cops escalated the case. Bucky’s face should be all over the local news by eleven._

 

“I’m trying to be accomodating, Goth Steve, but you’ve gotta come out of the bathroom! There’s fifty rooms...maybe fifty-five...seventy-two?...I actually don’t know how many rooms are in my house... but there are plenty of options to pollute with your sadness that don’t involve piss, shit, and toothpaste.”

 

_Tony’s trying to take me to the Opera. I wonder if Bucky would enjoy Vivaldi?_

 

Steve didn’t want to put on a tux. He’d put Bucky in a fancy suit once, and it was one of his biggest regrets. All Steve wanted to do was take Bucky to the ‘Sleeping With Sirens’ concert in a novelty t-shirt and a comfy pair of jeans.

“Are you alive in there? I know it’s a sensitive subject. Suicidal tendencies aren’t typical party conversation; but if I need to order Chinese and tell my Scandinavian Lover that we’ve gotta ditch culture in favor of a 24-hour suicide watch, I’m all in. I’m a sucker for sweet and sour pork.”

Sliding the pen into the spiral binding, Steve took his time crawling across the tiled floor to flip the lock. Cracking the door the tiniest bit, he wholeheartedly said, “Tony, thank you. I love you for calling me out, but you don’t have to invite me everywhere.”

“Well, I was just thinking that it would be a lot less convenient for you to slit your wrists at the Opera house than in a locked bathroom. Unless you’re going for the big, dramatic gesture: Romeo and Juliet style...running onto the stage at the Aria’s climax to put an end to all your suffering...that _would_ be the very definition of operatic.”

“Listen, ‘2001’ is playing at the little theater in Hell’s Kitchen tonight. It’s one of Bucky’s favorites, so Sam’s meeting up with me to check it out. Go ahead, enjoy your date. I promise not to do anything stupid.”

“Well, that last line was a load of complete and utter cow shit.” Shouldering the door and forcing his way into the spitwad covered room, Tony held out his hand, concern in his eyes as he pulled Steve to his feet. “How about you promise not to do anything stupid that involves getting arrested or dying?”

“I think I can handle that.”

“No mixtapes!”

“I’m not making a mixtape!” (Steve had _totally_ been making Bucky a mixtape...just in case.)

“You’re a liar. I saw that sappy Justin Bieber song cued up on the laptop. ‘U Smile’ is not acceptable music! You’re not ten, and neither is your missing boyfriend.”

“Oh my god, stop. I told you I’m not making another mixtape! Jesus!”

“Good. Let’s pinky promise.” Tony thrust out his finger and actually waited for Steve to lock their pinkies together before exclaiming, “Do you still wanna borrow one of Howard’s tuxes? You could be the fanciest boy at the Sci-Fi Sausage Fest!”

Jokes. AC/DC. Insults. Fire. Alcohol. Rudeness. General ridiculousness. Love.  

Steve pulled his best friend into a hug, and, for the first time in a long time, Tony Stark turned down his volume long enough to really hug him back.

 

**Day 18- Wednesday, November 16th.**

Steve was getting really familiar with Principal Barnes’ office...Mr. Barnes office...Bucky’s dad’s office...none of them sounded right. It was getting late, and Steve just wanted to go lift weights with Sam, but here he was...again. He’d been sitting here for fifteen minutes staring at the picture of Bucky and Natasha on the desk. It had been taken after she’d danced somewhere; Bucky’s arms wrapped around her waist just above her tutu as he lifted her into the air, a bouquet of pink roses in her arms and a shocked look on her face. Bucky was sticking out his tongue.

“Your dad’s about to yell at me,” Steve whispered. “I kneed Rollins in the balls. He’ll probably never have children.”

Reaching forward, Steve moved the frame over a few inches so it was right in front of him.

“Fury’s being a hard ass, and he called an extra practice after school. We have a meet against Dalton tomorrow; and without you, we’re gonna get our asses kicked. The whole team is falling apart.”

The secretary walked past the window, and Steve didn’t even pretend to stop talking. “I broke my own record in the breaststroke today, and Rollins opened his big mouth to say something rude.” She walked past again, obviously trying to confirm that he was talking to himself, and Steve simply waved.

When Fury’d announced Steve’s time, Rollins had opened his big fucking mouth, cackling as he’d yelled, ‘Been workin’ out, Rogers? Makin’ sure you’re sexy enough to keep your next fuck toy around a little longer?’ and Steve had violently and efficiently demolished his testicles. Bucky didn’t need to hear all the details.

Steve jumped when his phone dinged.

 

Tony: TJ was in and out of the police station in under an hour.

Steve: How do you know that?

Tony: My ‘Bucky Spies’. Duh. His daddy’s lawyers snuck him out the back door & evrythng. That 5th Amendment’s a real bitch. But that’s not the worst part...

Steve: …

Tony: Papa Rumlow’s lawyers did Daddy Soup’s 1 better & stonewalled the cops b4 they even got within pissing distance of Brock. Harassment blah blah blah. Airtight alibis blah blah blah. Evrythng Frank said was circumstantial blah blah blah. There’s no real evidence of anythng blahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh

Steve: You hacked the cameras at the police station again, didn’t you?

Tony: I also plead the 5th

 

The door slammed open, and Mr. Barnes rushed in, _finally_. He looked horrible, and the words out of his mouth weren’t what Steve had been expecting at all. “Thank you for going to the police, Steve.”

“Please, don’t thank me for that. I should have made that call the second I found Bucky by the pool at homecoming.”

“Yes, you should have. But getting Frank Castle to talk to Detective Judson was no small feat. It’s the first real information that might finally lead them somewhere...”

“It didn’t make a difference,” Steve interrupted.

“What are you talking about?”

“Frank telling Detective Judson about the times he heard Brock threatening to hurt Bucky, how he pulled Brock off Bucky at the dance, how scared TJ’d been when he’d called in the tip about the gun, TJ and the drugs...it didn’t change a thing. Everything’s circumstantial. The cops can’t touch them.”

“Give the detectives time to pull them in for questioning…”

“Yeah, that’s not happening.”

“You don’t know that, Steve.”

“Oh, but I do. The Great Tony Stark sees all.”

There was a pause, Mr. Barnes most likely debating if he should give Steve a stern lecture about illegal hacking, or encourage him. Swallowing, he shuffled papers around on his desk aimlessly while he decided. There were a lot of piles, and he moved them back and forth at least three times before going with neither. “Fury says you punched Rollins because he was mouthing off about Bucky.”

“I didn’t hit Jack.” Steve shrugged. “I kneed him in the balls.”

The papers landed in the center before Bucky’s dad looked him dead in the eye and said, “Good. I wouldn’t want you to hurt your wrist again.”

  


**Day 19- Friday, November 18th. 8:09 am**

Steve had his head down on the desk as he wrote, completely ignoring Mrs. Hanson’s altruistic pleas for participation in the Thanksgiving Can Drive. His entries were getting shorter. A kind of sad shorthand for his failures.

 

_11/19/2016  I set a new school record in the 100 meter breaststroke last night. Fury said I have a scholarship ‘on lock’. I couldn’t care less. After the meet: Went with Tony and Ezra to 3 different clubs looking for a guy with a Russian, German, Venezuelan, or possibly Klingon accent who likes giving BJs to hot millennial bartenders named Brandon, Landon, Grayson, Lawson...who fucking knows? Shoved my way through sweaty crowds and died inside every single time a guy with wavy brown hair had the wrong face. What if Bucky doesn’t want to come home? What if he likes letting strange men shove their dicks down his throat? Fuck. Stop it. Why do I even let myself write this shit?_

 

Mrs. Hanson stopped next to his desk, and Steve made no effort to hide what he was writing. Today’s theme: Steve gives zero shits. He kept writing for at least three minutes while she just stood there, so he figured ‘what the hell’ and slid the notebook her way. “Wanna read it? It’s good stuff; like modern Kerouac without the adventurous road trip.”

It seemed that Mrs. Hanson actually _did_ give a shit, because she reached down to pick up the notebook, her expression comically shifting from mild concern to _massive_ concern the further her eyes moved down the page. Steve almost felt proud.

 

_Over & over, same old shit. Ezra drank 2 Martinis at every club, got beyond wasted, & had a random girl suck his dick at every stop. It only took 4 years, 6 Martinis, and 3 bathroom BJs for me to realize that Ezra’s not a real friend. Check another one off the fucking list. Tony bought shots for anyone who pretended to recognize Bucky’s picture (see the problem there?) then forgot if anyone said anything useful. Despite his complete & utter failure, Tony, unlike Ezra, is a real friend...he also just happens to be an alcoholic binge drinker with no filter. I’m not mad at Tony. I’m mad at myself because Tony needs help too. We all do. Even TJ. _

_Oh, let’s not forget my contributions to the evening:_

  1. _Screaming match with a bartender who seemed to recognize Bucky’s picture but shrugged his shoulders with a shitty little smirk on his stupid face. His name was Colton (in my mind), and he had a stupid tribal dragon tattoo. I threw Tony’s drink in that asshole’s face. (kicked out of club #1)_
  2. _Started some kind of abridged MMA fight with a total prick who was harassing this little dude on the dancefloor. Little Dude was appreciative. The bouncer who got blood splattered all over his shirt was not. (kicked out of club #2)_
  3. _Saw an emo kid who looked like Ed Sheeran (not a successful combo) lifting a girl’s phone out of her purse. Punched him in his muscleless emo stomach. Retrieved phone. Lost my soul. (kicked out of club #3)_



_Finished my therapist’s homework assignment. Prompt: Think about why you punch everyone. Okay. Thinking complete. Maybe it’s who I am? After all, it’s how I was raised. Or, better yet, maybe I just like it? Got back to Tony’s somewhere after 3. Still in the pool by 5:10._

 

“Steve,” she whispered, kneeling down next to his desk. “I don’t know what to say. Do you want to go see Mrs. McDaniels? I can write you a pass to the office.”

He felt bad for her. Teachers weren’t trained for this kind of shit.

“Mrs. McD is all tapped out, but thanks for the offer.”

“Then what can I do? I’m worried about you.” She squeezed his arm a little. It was a nice sentiment.

“Nothing. Everyone’s doing everything they can.”

 

**Day 25- Thursday, November 24th. Thanksgiving.**

Steve had spent the morning kicking the shit out of everything in Tony’s gym and pretending that Thanksgiving didn’t exist. No invading Europeans eviscerating the Native Population. No fake Facebook posts pretending that you _love_ spending time with creepy Aunt Denise. No mother fucking whip cream on pumpkin pie! Many invitations had been extended, and all had been refused.

Duck and Quail with the Starks? Cue the Alexander flashbacks. Surrounding himself with Sam’s warm, wonderful, colorful quilt of a family, his parents telling embarrassing stories about Sam as a toddler while hundreds of loud cousins ran around the table? Too hard. Traveling with Peggy to the Carter Country Estate to shoot live turkeys with hunting rifles? Awkward. The Barnes house? Some things are too painful to even consider.

But then he’d gotten an invitation he never would have expected.

 

Clint: Today sucks. Come over. It’s just me & my mom. We have 2 much pie.

 

He and Clint had been on thin ice; an undefined truce but nothing more. They’d crossed paths in the weight room at Eaton, spotting each other with heavier and heavier weights without really exchanging words. They’d gone to Central Park with Natasha a few times, but had looked for Bucky in different places. Steve’s nose had healed with the extra little bump, and the bruises on Clint’s cheekbones had faded after a week or so. Somebody had eventually fixed his hair, and neither of them had ever mentioned the eventful afternoon they’d spent trying to kill one another. So, the invitation...it was weird, but, oddly, one that Steve decided to accept.

 

Steve: Thank you. I don’t know what to say.

Clint: Say ur coming

Steve: Okay. I’m coming, but can you do something for me first?

Clint: depends

Steve: Hide the whip cream, please. I just can’t handle it today.

 

  
**Day 30-  Tuesday, November 29th. 12:17pm**   

_11/29/2016 Bucky’s been missing for a month. It’s hard to even write that. To put it in black and white in a notebook full of words about the lack of him. This has been the worst 30 days of my entire life. Worse than my mom wasting away, worse than Alexander beating and belittling me for 6 years. The past 30 days have been a new kind of hell; the torture of not knowing usurping every kind of pain. God, that was fucking pretentious._

 

Steve ripped out the page and crumpled it up in his fist, starting again as the kids around him tried to get their writing homework out of the way. Steve had finished it five minutes ago.

 

_11/29/2016 Bucky’s been gone for a month and it’s unbearable. TJ showed up at school today with a big hickey on his neck and a black eye. He wears sweaters every day now. I spent my entire lunch staring at the purple spot on his neck, trying to remember the exact shape and size of the hickeys Bucky’s gorgeous mouth sucked onto my chest, my throat, my hips, and deciding if TJ’s neck carried the same impression. The truth is, I couldn’t tell._

 

 **Day 35- Sunday, December 4th. 4:55 pm**  

“I know you’re salty about reneging on the ‘Steve Rogers’ Saves the Gays Cash Fund’, but did you really have to pick out the smallest, trashiest place you could find?”

Tony was walking around Steve’s new apartment in the Park Slope neighborhood of Brooklyn, just a few blocks from Prospect Park, and _touching stuff._ Hands on the peeling window sills. Hands opening and closing the narrow fridge. Feet kicking at the wide floorboards. It reminded Steve of Bucky at the hotel the morning after the dance: picking stuff up and putting it down. Frankly, it was pissing Steve off.

Stretching his arms out in the bedroom, Tony leaned side to side so that his fingertips almost touched both walls. “Steve, this isn’t big enough for a bed!”

“Then how’d a bed get in there?” Steve snapped, the now-familiar emptiness in his belly filling itself with irrational rage. Sam and Skinner had just spent an hour helping him putting the damn thing together in the cramped space, and they all had the bruises on their knees and the sweat stains on their t-shirts to prove it! There was barely half an inch to spare on either side.

Kicking at the metal frame, Tony scoffed, “A twin bed is not a bed!”

“It’s a queen!”

“Same thing!”

It was hard to stand still, to keep his Vans planted in the center of another designated rectangle instead of charging Tony and knocking his ass onto the mother fucking _queen sized_ bed! This day was supposed to have been about happiness and love, big steps towards an exciting future, and the freedom of undefined shapes. But it wasn’t. And Tony was making it harder and harder to keep it together.

Before Bucky’d disappeared, Steve had floated around in a cloud of magical Cinderella daydreams about moving into his first apartment with a chaotic Starboy by his side. Bucky dropping his end of the couch on the way up the stairs and introducing himself to the neighbors with a string of ‘fucks’, ‘shits’, and ‘Ow, my mother fucking toes!’ Bucky doing a handstand in the middle of the empty living room, his shirt riding up to reveal his sculpted Adonis lines, just because he could. Bucky insisting that they make love on their new _queen size_ mattress before they unpacked a single box. Bucky’s laughter bouncing through the rooms, its infectious melody transforming this space into their home…

“I can have my dad buy this building if you’re so set on the Oliver Twist lifestyle.” Tony was still talking. He was still talking, and Steve wanted him to stop. Please stop. Stop… “We can knock out all the walls, do a little rén-o-va-tion, make this place fit for a King _and_ a king sized bed…”

Bucky, The King of the Misfits, with his golden crown full of Lucky Charms’ jewels, smiling as the colors bounced off Steve’s naked chest...

“Man, shut up!” Sam interrupted. “This place is nice! Give Steve a break and help me screw this drawer together! I’ve got not one but _two_ genius engineers in the room, and _I’m_ the one struggling with this Norwegian IKEA shit. Someone wanna tell me how that makes sense?”

Nothing makes sense, Sam. Nothing...

Kneeling down next to the only other piece of furniture that Steve had bought, Skinner snatched the screwdriver out of Sam’s hand. “Swedish, actually,” he muttered. “And these are locking nuts. Where did you put the special tool?”

There are many ways to deal with one of your best friends disappearing. Skinner’s was to accept a position as a Scientific Sidekick, getting approval to spend half the school day with Tony’s and Loki’s team at MIT, and throwing himself into the work of solving problems that _could_ be solved. Science shit. Steve blanked out whenever they started talking about it.

Looking around, a kind of quiet had overtaken the room. Skinner had pushed his glasses on top of his head and was chuckling at Sam digging through the pile of unsorted nails, screws, and other randomness. Tony, it seemed, had worn himself out like an ADHD toddler in need of a Benadryl induced afternoon nap, and was lying on Steve’s subpar mattress, fiddling with his phone.

The calmness released Steve’s feet, allowing him to walk in slow motion towards the windows overlooking the street. The blinds were broken, hanging at a jaunty diagonal, half up, half down, and Steve shoved his head underneath to take in the view. There wasn’t an unobstructed sightline to Central Park, where rock formations peeked through the treetops and New Yorkers jogged on twisting paths. No row of mansions across the street to remind Steve of the immensity of the Stark family fortune. And the power lines that had swooped past the pointed rooftops on Bucky’s block were nowhere to be found. Pressing his forehead against the glass, Steve stared at the ancient limestone buildings, narrow and tall, each with its own personality that Steve didn’t care to know about...at least, not yet. He’d picked this apartment because it had eleven foot ceilings, high enough for Bucky to jump on the bed in his Luke Skywalker pajama cosplay, and an old fireplace with an oversized mantle. When Bucky came back, it would be the perfect place to hang stockings for their first Christmas together.

“Steve?” Clapping his shoulder, Sam killed the fantasies of sugarplum fairies, baking sugar cookies for Santa, and two red stockings someday becoming three, or even four. The room shifted back to an empty mantle and a sealed off chimney that Santa’s fat ass could never squeeze down. “You gonna help us unpack your whopping two _garbage bags_ or are you planning on hiding under those blinds and staring out the window all day while we do the heavy lifting?”

“Milk crates?” Tony kicked them across the living room/dining room/only other room besides the tiny kitchen, tiny bedroom, and even tinier bathroom, and they skidded across the warped hardwood. Great, his nap had lasted five minutes. “Mark the Lawyer pulled back _eight grand a month_ from our fellow queers, so you’ve got thirteen k to live on, thirteen-thousand-dollars a month, and you choose Park Slope and milk crates!”

“Bucky will like it here,” Steve said, untangling himself from the blinds. “And I still plan on giving most of that money back to the center.”

“God, you’re so annoying,” Tony groaned.

Flipping the half assembled nightstand upright, Skinner snapped, “No, he’s not. Go eat a Snickers or something. You’re being a total bitch.”

Tony rolled his eyes and begrudgingly restacked the milk crates against the wall next to the windows. “Did you at least buy a lamp?”

“No, I don’t need one.”

“Steve,” Sam started, “you’ve gotta start taking care of yourself, man. This is gonna be your home. You need more than a nightstand that won’t fit in your bedroom and a bed. Did you even buy sheets?”

“I have a comforter. And this isn’t my home, Sam. Without Bucky, that word doesn’t exist for me.”

Orange Crush soaking into the stars, spilled by a boy in glittering boots...

“And if they don’t find him?” That was Skinner, diving into dangerous territory.  “As much as it kills me to say it, we have to start facing facts…”

“I’m not giving up.”

“Steve…” Tony took a step towards him, the toddler replaced by the friend.

Slapping the blinds, he shot them a look that shut them right up. “When Bucky comes home,” he hissed, “he and I will pick out a lamp _together._ Am I making myself clear? Don’t _ever_ talk like that in this space again, or you can all let the door hit you on the ass on the way out!”

Steve ripped open the garbage bag at his feet; his clothes, the walkman, his toothbrush, and everything else that he owned spilling out onto the floor. Snatching up a few shirts, he started shoving them on the milk crate shelves at random. “I’m not pounding a single nail into these walls, hanging a single picture, putting clothes in the closet, or towels on the rack. This apartment will remain a bare canvas until the man I want to spend the rest of my life with walks across that threshold! Do you understand!?”

*

 

When Steve went to sleep that night on the bare mattress, his pink polo tucked under his head as a pillow and the dirty comforter wrapped around him like a burrito, one raven hovered in the northwest corner, while the other held court in the southeast; wings spread, yet perfectly still, a baffling diagonal stretching between them across the ceiling and vibrating like the lowest guitar string.

 

**Day 41- Saturday, December 10th. 5:45pm**

Steve was leaning against the wall in the corner of his bed. He was wearing a pair of low slung jeans and nothing else. His back was sticking to the paint. The sketchbook was open on the mattress next to him, along with the pencils Bucky’d picked out, and an empty plastic Chobani cup that had once held pencil shavings. Now they were spilled all over the mattress that still didn’t have sheets. He had sheets now. Tony’d sent over a set of ‘Jurassic Park’ ones covered with velociraptors and pterodactyls as a housewarming gift. But Steve had shoved them under the bed. He’d also sent two blue bean bag chairs. Steve still hadn’t decided if he was going to sit on them.

The past hour and a half had been dedicated to drawing a soft portrait of Bucky in classical style: Bucky Barnes by way of Botticelli, tender, full of breath, with a sense of serenity. But Steve’s muse might as well be hanging on the wall of a museum, a memory of a life once lived, vibrant and colorful, but now only existing in a gilded frame that nobody was allowed to touch. Well, the drawing _had_ been like Botticelli, until Steve had started smudging the 6B pencil everywhere with his fingers, stabbing the page as he extended the curves of Bucky’s paper hair until he’d turned his fingers black. Yeah, he probably shouldn’t have done that, because now Steve had drawn himself into to a place that he was having a very hard time getting out of.

                                                           

The past few days’ journal entries read like a fucking nightmare, straight out of a poorly written dystopian novella. Highlights included:

 

_12/07/2016  Miss him too much to write._

_12/08/2016  Bought shampoo, conditioner, soap, shaving cream, and deodorant for the first time in my entire life. Using the plastic bag it came in for garbage. Gave in and bought a tiny set of Bose speakers and an aux cord yesterday. Set them up on top of the night stand in the corner of the living room. I’ve been playing NF “Can you hold Me” on repeat for 4 hours._

_12/09/2016 Tony showed up tonight with sweet and sour pork for his ‘suicide watch shift’. He gave me a new laptop, quickly hacked into the upstairs neighbor’s wi-fi, Netflix, and Hulu accounts, then called Loki, who appeared twenty minutes later with a lamp in one hand and a red beta fish in a tiny bowl in the other. Tony told me it was symbolic..._

 

Steve flipped the page to the entries he’d been obsessively writing all day. Do something, write it down, do something else, write it down. A pointless list memorializing a mundane day, scribbled down before he’d stupidly picked up Bucky’s pencils. The words seemed to blend together into one big pile of shit while NF _still_ played on repeat. The song had been playing for three days now.

 

_12/10/2016_

_*4:25 am. Woke up hard again. Still didn’t masturbate. Not going to._

_*5:00-7:00 am. Slipped Daja an extra twenty to let me swim another hour. She said my shoulders are starting to look like Michael Phelps. Not sure it was a compliment._

_*7:10 am. Got our coffee on way to Eaton. Stupidity made me ask for a cup of extra whipped cream. Had to throw it out the car window at the goddamn backwards raven. I’m so sick of them flying on either side of me. I hate it. Accidentally hit minivan with the cup. White cream exploded all over their passenger side window. Minor road rage incident at 7:18 am._

_*7:40-10:00 am. Fury had the team run the stairs and do laps for over an hour, then made us lift from 9-10. Benched 240 lbs today. Fury asked if I’m taking steroids._

_*10:10 am. Said no to lunch with Sam. Stopped for a protein shake and an order of brown rice and veggies at Whole Foods. Bought fish food and bigger bowl. Fuck symbolism. The tiny bowl is cruel. Also bought pink rocks and a live plant that’s supposed to make oxygen. I don’t know how this shit works._

_*11:22 am. Put fish in new bowl. I’ve never had a pet. Don’t know why I never realized that until now. Guess I’m a pet owner. I’m not giving it a name._

_*11:30-12:10 pm. Called Tony and badgered him to hack into the NYPD facial recognition software again. Not sure he’s gonna do it._

_*12:10-12:15 pm. Called Frank and badgered him about Brock and TJ. Update: TJ’s still buying boatloads of heroin. Brock’s still spending most of his time holed up in his house. In other words, Frank knows nothing._

_*12:15-2:30. Homework sucks. Over 2 fucking hours! Bullshit! Remember to thank Tony for laptop & wi-fi. _

_*2:30-4:25 pm. Did laundry. Wiped hairs off sink after shaving. Washed my bowl and plate ($3 at thrift shop) with my first bottle of dish soap (pine scented, because I have high hopes for Christmas). Took out trash in actual garbage bag. Used my first roll of paper towel to scrub mud and snow off the wood floor. Folded all my shit. Shoved it back in the crates._

_*4:26 pm. Dug bag of almonds out of backpack. Devoured whole thing including tiny pieces in bottom. Still hungry._

_*4:30-5:30 pm. Sprawled out spread eagle in middle of living room and turned speakers up full blast. Stared at ceiling in the dark. Ignored growling stomach._

* _5:30-7:00 pm. Drew a portrait of Bucky from the pic I took the day his hair looked exactly like Harry Styles’. After I snapped the shot, Bucky’d crooned ‘Perfect’ until he’d started losing his voice, then he’d sang it some more. I miss his voice… Fuck! Mistake! Mistake! Mistake! Mistake! Mistake!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Now I can’t fucking move._

 

The panic attack was coming. Steve’s fingers were tingling already, and the words on the page were starting to twist. He had to get up. He had to get up before he couldn’t. Quickly tossing everything to the side, Steve scrambled off the end of the bed and rushed to put on his heavy boots, thick black winter coat, and the olive green hat and gloves that he’d bought at the Army Surplus store. Then he shoved the Smith & Wesson boot knife that went with him whenever he went out looking into its sheath.

Walking the streets kept the panic at bay. Walking the streets made him feel like he was doing _something._ Walking the streets kept Steve alive, despite the birds.

There was no moon, only a solid blanket of low clouds with the city lights bouncing off the bottoms, and it felt heavy, claustrophobic. Steve could tell it was going to snow again...the kind of giant flakes that stick to your eyelashes...and add a fresh layer of white to the six inches of muddy slop that was currently splashing over the tops of his boots and sinking into his jeans. Steve had never seen snowflakes clinging to Bucky’s eyelashes or watched him laughing while he danced in circles with his tongue sticking out, trying to catch the flakes like Peppermint Patty. Dammit. Kicking at a huge pile of snow, Steve hit ice, and, despite his boot’s steel toes, he felt the pain zinging through his teeth.

Zigzagging through the checkerboard of streets, Steve paused to look at every homeless person, shifting his eyes to get a closer look at their faces. He stopped to talk to men holding their hands over metal garbage can fires, slipping them a five or a ten before pulling up Bucky’s picture on his phone and asking the same questions: ‘Have you seen him? He might be looking for drugs. If you spot him, _please_ tell him to come home’. And getting the same depressing answers. With each passing day, the needle on the record scratched backwards to play the same thing, and it became harder and harder for Steve to keep going. But he did. Blisters on his feet, stretch marks forming at the joint of his shoulders, bags under his eyes, the same song on repeat…

It was after 11:00 when Steve found himself on Clint’s doorstep without an invitation (again). Sighing, Steve circled the buzzer with his finger, the rust around the edges flaking from the pressure of his glove. There was no way Steve could go back to his apartment with that drawing of a two-dimensional boy lying on the bed, knowing damn well that Bucky might never get to snuggle under pterodactyl sheets in three dimensions. He just couldn’t.

Buzzing the door this time, Steve waited for an answer.

“What?” Clint’s static voice sounded equally tired and pissed.

“Clint, it’s Steve.”

“Is it about Bucky?”

“No.”

“Are you okay?”

“No.”

The response was pretty fucking clear. First, a long sigh crackled through the speaker, followed by an even longer groan, and Steve bashed the side of his fist against the bricks before turning towards the street. Maybe it was time to walk to Prospect Park and sit cross-legged in the middle of Bucky’s sandbox, now filled with snow instead of the desert sands of Dune, and slip the knife out of his boot? Would the snow melt once Steve dragged the blade up his wrists in one long line? Would the rivers of red dig canyons all way down to the laughter of Bucky’s sand from the planet Dune? Was that where Steve would finally find him?

He’d made it down to the last step when he noticed that the giant flakes he’d predicted had started to fall, dancing in erratic patterns in the light of the street lamps. Without thinking, Steve tipped his head towards the sky and stuck out his tongue.

Suddenly, the buzzer for the door made Steve’s jaw snap shut; his teeth barely missing the tip of his tongue as he spun around, tripping up the stairs to catch the handle before it stopped. His response had been a reflex. When a buzzer rings, you open the door. It was Pavlovian. But then there was a moment when Steve’s mind begged his fingers to release, to let the lock click shut and walk to the park where the snowflakes were calling his name... but it _could_ have been Bucky at those clubs...they could still find him. And then what would Steve be? A cheap Romeo knock off like Tony’d insinuated? Equally stupid with his grand gesture of endless devotion? Goddammit!

It will get better. Choose life. Dial a 1-800 number. Talk to a friend. Was Clint a fucking friend? Did sharing pumpkin pie make it cool for Romeo to show up on his doorstep with a vial of poison? Steve didn’t know, but it was enough to get him to turn his back on the snow and step into the tiny lobby. As tempting as it was, he didn’t really want his life to end with a poor approximation of Shakespeare in the Park.

Clint’s door was open, but he hadn’t unhooked the chain. Through the crack, Steve could see that he was wearing a pair of dark grey sweats and a ‘System of a Down’ t-shirt with a huge hole in the collar. His hair was sticking up like he’d been electrocuted, and he looked...warmly annoyed? Was that a thing? As soon as Steve opened his mouth to say something, Clint jammed his hand up to the crack and flipped him off. “I was sleeping.”

“I know, I’m sorry…”

“My _mom_ was sleeping,” he interrupted. “Last time you showed up here unexpectedly I seem to recall your fist smashing my face, sucker punch style. I know we had a breakthrough of sorts on Thanksgiving, but I’m just fucking tired, man.”

“Clint, I…” Steve trailed off. He didn’t even know what to ask.

“You know, I was dreaming that I was a guitar tech for some badass arena rock band, maybe a mash-up of Rage Against the Machine and... _Nickelback?_ ” Clint scrunched up his face. “Ugh, gross. I _hate_ Nickelback. If I hear ‘Rockstar’ one more time…” Shivering, he rubbed at his eyes. “But then Tom Morello fell off the stage and they needed me to fill in. A dream come true in a dream, right? So yeah, I was about to rip an _amazing_ guitar solo when you woke me up, and...”

“Can I stay here tonight?” Steve butted in. The pressure of the knife against his ankle was building, almost like it was sawing into his tendons through the sheath. “I was out walking and looking for him, and I just...Clint, I can’t go back to that empty apartment...I’m sorry it’s so late, but I...I just can’t.”

There was a long look through the tiny space, Clint’s eyes sweeping slowly from Steve’s dirty boots all the way up to his snow covered hat. Steve wondered if he saw the top of the knife?

Sighing, he unhooked the chain but didn’t open the door any wider. “Before I let you in, I need to make a few things _very_ clear.”

“Yeah, anything.”

“Number one, I’m fucking exhausted so you have to go to sleep, and we’re not talking about _anything!_ I can’t be the Ice Cream Man for sad, gay boys anymore. You need to remember that _all_ of us are suffering, and I can’t be the strong one anymore, Steve, because I’m not strong. _I’m not._ ”

If Steve didn’t get into the relative safety of Clint’s living room right now, he wasn’t gonna make it. “Okay,” Steve blurted out, pressing his palms against the door, but Clint didn’t budge.

“Stop. I’m not done. I have a friend over, and you woke _them_ up too.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah, you’re rude,” Clint grumbled, but his expression was softening. “Lucky for you, they’re cool with you being here, because they’re cool about everything; so if I let you in, you need to go to my room, lay your ass down, and go to sleep. That’s it.”

The knife twisted, it’s sheath dissolving into nothing as the edge shredded Steve’s sock and caught his ankle bone. The door needed to open, _now,_ so he nodded, not entirely certain of what he’d agreed to. He just couldn’t be alone. It was freezing cold. It was late. There was no way he could go back to a place where spilled pencil shavings, a nameless fish in a medium sized bowl, and a vibrating guitar string stretched between two harbingers were the only things waiting for him. “Fine,” Steve yelped, pushing harder on the door.

“I mean it, Steve.”

“I know, I’ll do it. Just...please.”

When Clint stepped back to let him in, Steve practically fell onto the rug, scared of the giant snowflakes blowing up the stairwell, petrified of the blood filling the inside of his boot, afraid of the whispers inside his head.

“You look like shit.”

“What?”

“I said you look like shit.” Clint stared at him for a second, opened his mouth to say something, then snapped it back shut.

Steve pushed the door shut against the drifting snow and mumbled, “That’s because I _am_ a piece of shit. It’s the general consensus.”

“Dude, I _told_ you, the Ice Cream Store is closed.” He sighed, throwing a hand on Steve’s shoulder and brushing off the snow. “But you’re not a piece of shit, okay? You’re not.” There was an honesty in Clint’s voice that made Steve’s heart rate start to slow immediately. “Why the hell do you have black smudges all over your face? You look like you’re hiding from the Predator.”

The drawing...

“You know what...forget I asked. I’m gonna take a piss, and you’d better be halfway to dreamland by the time I get back.”

Steve hadn’t dreamed since…

“If you’re not, I’m kicking you out.”

The bathroom was attached to the living room, right next to the kitchen, and Clint didn’t even bother shutting the door. Quickly toeing off his boots and slipping the knife further inside so it was out of sight, Steve realized that his socks were drenched and his jeans were soaking wet up to the knees. With no other real choice, he stripped down to his boxers and t-shirt as he listened to Clint’s never ending waterfall of piss, then patted a non-biting Lucky on the head before wandering into the bedroom.

Panic attacks and visions of Shakespearean tragedies brought to life tend to distract from words spoken in the real world, so when Clint had said, ‘I have a friend over’, Steve’s brain had served up a few quick scenarios before moving on. Daisy or Skinner squished on the tiny couch, half covered by the ugly afghan with an empty two liter of Coke propped in the corner. A rebound with pretty red hair crashed in Clint’s bed, or Natasha herself, coming back to him for comfort. What Steve absolutely _hadn’t_ pictured was walking in to find a lean, muscular guy with olive skin and chin length jet black hair, staring at him from underneath the blanket. Only the small lamp on the nightstand was on, but it looked like he might be Latino: sharp, narrow face, strong nose, heavy brow, but with thin, delicate lips and dark eyes.

“Uhh,” was all Steve could manage.

“Hey,” he said casually, adjusting the pillow and yawning like he didn’t have a care in the world. “Nice to finally meet you.”

“Uhh.”

Knocking Steve out of his glitch, Clint pushed past him and unceremoniously climbed into the middle of the bed, quickly muttering, “Steve, Luca. Luca, Steve,” before making a big show of pulling off his hearing aids and setting them on the nightstand. “Look, I can’t hear a damn thing, and I’m turning off the light, so get in, or don’t. Either way, I’m going to sleep.”

The room went dark except for the street lamps shining in the window, and Steve watched Clint scooch backwards towards whoever the hell this Luca guy was. In one fluid motion, the stranger’s arm slid underneath Clint’s pillow as he looped the other one over his waist...but that was it. There were no words, no nuzzle or kiss, no hint whatsoever as to who they might be to one another, and Steve just stood there, positive that Clint was already sleeping.

“Steve,” the guy whispered after a minute, his voice low and warm. “It’s okay to be tired.”

His nose was just clearing the top of Clint’s spiky hair, and Steve’s mind snapped to how it felt to be Bucky’s big spoon. A lump formed in his throat just thinking about the motion of Bucky’s ribs expanding and contracting in his arms and the hole he’d left behind.

“No...it’s not.”

Unhooking his arm, the stranger flipped down the blanket. “Maybe that’s true. But you’re allowed to _sleep._ ”

Steve almost laughed as uninvited sobs tried to push their way to the surface, the stranger’s words granting the most unexpected permission.

He couldn’t be alone tonight. He just couldn’t.

When Steve climbed under the covers, a confident hand tucked the blanket under his chin, then wrapped itself back around Clint’s stomach. The bed was just big enough for Steve to fit, but it wasn’t big enough to avoid the stranger’s.. _.Luca’s._..knuckles ghosting against his ribcage, or to hide the shaking motion from trying to hold back his tears.

A hand slowly stretched out to grab Steve’s right wrist, the smaller fingers wrapping around the whole of it. “It’s okay,” Luca whispered. “Let yourself dream. Maybe Bucky will comfort you there.”

The opposite of panic is when the world is suddenly so quiet that you’re convinced it’s stopped spinning entirely. Unknown fingers. A stranger whispering Bucky’s name. Clint hiding whatever this was...Steve twisted his head to look at Clint’s face. His nose was mushed into the pillow and his eyelids were fluttering, but he looked peaceful and calm. To be perfectly honest, Steve had no idea what to make of it. Perhaps the boardwalk’s oldest Ice Cream Shop for Sad Gay Boys _had_ been shuttered to make room for the competition holding Steve’s wrist? Shifting his gaze to Luca, Steve focused on the way his long black eyelashes framed a philosopher’s eyes. There was something about them...the dark blown irises melding with the pupils...the softness of the gaze...that made the last of Steve’s walls give way. Allowing the ugly tears to flow freely over his cheeks, Steve pulled in a shaky breath before shifting his freezing cold feet towards the center.

It was nothing like lying next to Bucky...there was no magnetic force, no coiled tension or blissful relaxation...it was just warm where there had only been cold, a safe space where he’d been given permission to grieve. Closing his eyes, Steve tried not to lose hold of the planet as gravity ceased to exist.

God, he missed Bucky so much...

  


**Day 42- Sunday, December 10th. 9:31 am**

Sometimes, when you sleep in a strange place or take a nap in the middle of the day, you wake up totally freaked out, thinking: Where? What!? Shit! Am I late? What the fuck time is it!? It took Steve a full minute to understand why the hell there was sunshine coming through the window.

For the first time since Bucky’d been gone, Steve had slept in. No alarm at 4:00 am, no self-destructive coffee ‘treats’, no friendly ‘you look like shit’ from Dale or Raja...no water. He was alone, sprawled out diagonally across Clint’s bed, lying flat on his back like a corpse. Dammit. Why did he think that? What the fuck was wrong with him!? Kicking the last of the blankets off his feet, Steve stumbled out of bed and tripped on a pair of classic Adidas. They weren’t Clint’s. 

Steve choked as the shoe flipped onto its side, because it wasn’t Bucky’s either. Bucky’d disappeared into thin air with bare feet…

And that was it. He didn’t have anything left. Every ounce of Bucky’s color poured out the bottoms of Steve’s feet, slinking into the cracks under Clint’s bed and returning him to grey, white, and black; the synchronicity of color destroyed by a piece of shit who hadn’t deserved its magic in the first place. A single tear slid down his cheek as everything washed down the fucking drain.

The walls were thin, and Steve could hear the muffled sound of TV, Lucky scratching at the front door, and three hushed voices. He didn’t belong here either.

Of course, Steve had left his jeans by the front door, and there was no way in hell that his thighs would even think about fitting into Clint’s pants, so he just got it over with and walked into the living room in his boxers. He’d get his pants and get the hell out. That was the goddamn plan. But, instead of the casual breakfast scene he’d expected, Steve walked into the middle of something else entirely.

Jody, Clint’s mom, was wearing a sea green bathrobe, her blonde curls piled high on top of her head, and she was sitting at their tiny dining room table with her head in her hands. There was a cooking show on the TV...it looked like they were making crepes...but nobody was watching. Clint was across from her, and the sight of him made everything stop. Steve had seen that look in movies and TV shows a million times: the wife of a soldier when she opens the door to discover two men in uniform staring back at her, or the upward glance and subtle shake of the head when a paramedic removes their hand from the carotid artery. He’d experienced it himself once, when his mother’s heart monitor had flatlined right before his twelve-year-old eyes.

When Clint looked up, Steve saw nothing but horizontal lines.

He was fully dressed in a black hooded sweatshirt and grey jeans, with his heavy black boots tied tightly around his ankles. His right knee was shaking up and down and there was a twitch to his mouth; but, even worse, when he breathed through his nose, Steve could hear his teeth grinding. Behind him was that Luca guy, standing there in a grey and blue plaid flannel with his black hair pulled into a tiny ponytail, small pieces falling in his eyes as he touched Clint’s shoulder. The grinding didn’t stop.

“What?” Steve gasped, his voice betraying him by asking a question whose answer he couldn’t bear to hear. “What is it?”

“Tony called about an hour ago…” Clint drifted off, swallowing hard.

Pure panic exploded through Steve’s chest as Clint’s face twisted into something tortured and ugly. Panic, pain, fear, a million letters tearing into his flesh all at once. Steve sounded like an animal when he screamed, “Tell me!”

Jody got up and reached out to steady him. “Steve, I need you to sit down. Can you do that for me?” She sounded so calm, but her eyes were puffy. People tell other people to sit down right before they destroy their world. That’s what _‘I need you to sit down’_ means.

So Steve sat in her vacated chair, waiting waiting waiting for her to say the words as she knelt down and took his hand. Her hair was the same color as his mother’s; sunshine and daffodils in springtime.

“The Stark’s butler, Jarvis, went down to their wine cellar last night. He was selecting wine for a dinner party; and when he pulled out a bottle in the corner, he found…” Jody paused, squeezing Steve’s hand tighter before taking a deep breath. “...he found a red feather from Bucky’s costume.”

“What?” Steve whimpered.

“Mrs. Stark called the police right away; and I don’t know how to say this, Steve, so I’m just gonna say it. They found evidence of blood...blood that someone had wiped up...and from what Tony said, it was substantial.”

“What?”

Clint kicked the chair out from under himself and snapped, “But they didn’t find any blood on the stairs or in the hall that leads to the back door! Do you know what that means, Steve? Do you!? It means there’s no way in hell that Bucky that got out of that basement by himself! Someone must have helped him, or carried him, or…” Clint’s voice shuddered. “...or fucking wrapped him up.”

         . _..lifeless blue eyes staring at nothing through a veil of plastic…_

Hands on his knees. A mother’s voice coming from far away. “They’re transferring the case to the Special Victims Division.”

“Why?” he heard himself ask. “What does that mean?”

“Steve, I’m sorry. They...they found evidence that Bucky might have been sexually assaulted.”  

If Steve thought his world had collapsed when Natasha’s palm had slapped his useless face in the bathtub, he’d been wrong. That was nothing compared to the unbearable sucking sensation inside Steve’s rib cage as Jody’s words collapsed his center like an atom bomb, the void collecting energy as his vision turned red. It had been a while since the veins had exploded out of his fingertips, but it was like they’d never left when the pulsating vessels parted around the woman in front of him to race up the walls. The taste of copper filled Steve’s mouth as his rib cage expanded so far that the bones cracked down the center, his incomplete heart breaking free of its cage to find its other half.

Suddenly, Clint stormed past him, easily passing through the criss-crossing pattern of red as he ran into the bathroom and slammed the door. Veins, like tentacles, curled around the knob, weaving in and out of every space until there wasn’t anywhere else to go, and Steve was left floating backwards in an ocean of blood, knowing with absolute certainty who was to blame.

In the red, everything became clear.

In the red, Steve wasn’t afraid.

In the red, Steve knew exactly what he had to do.

“I’m going to kill him.”

“Steven, let go.”

The stranger with the black hair reached his unwelcome hands into the solution and pulled Steve back to the surface; foreign fingers keeping his head above the viscous pool of red as Jody told Steve to breathe over and over.

“I’m going to find him and rip his throat out with my bare hands.”

“Jesus christ, Steve. Let go!”

         _...why didn’t you catch me, Stevie? I was stretching out my hand..._

Blinking, Steve saw splintered pieces of wood squeezed in his fists as blood dripped out around them. There was no pain, only a solid feeling in his chest that hadn’t been there before...maybe ever…and he squeezed the shattered pieces even harder. Jody was backing up. Smart. Luca, for whatever stupid reason, was trying to pry open his fingers as Clint yelled in Steve’s ear. Useless. There was nothing they could do to stop him.

Turning to Clint, Steve opened his palms and let the wood fall to the floor. Speaking plainly, he said, “You know what I have to do.”

Even though Clint shook his head ‘no’, the look in his eyes made it clear that he understood completely. And while Jody circled around them, repeating meaningless words like, “Let the police do their job...they’re going to get a warrant...there’s a procedure for this, Steve,” Clint didn’t break eye contact.

His silence was an affirmation.

Steve was going to find Brock Rumlow, do whatever he had to do to get to the truth, and then snap his fucking neck.

 

  
**Day 44- Monday, December 12th. 5:50 am**

Steve didn’t move after the ghost had sunk beneath the surface. He just floated there, thinking, planning, and remembering the beauty of his boyfriend’s smile...

Bucky hadn’t left Steve willingly or wandered away in some drug-fueled hallucination. Someone had _hurt_ him, _taken_ him, and this was the day that Steve was going to find out who was responsible.

Today, Steve Rogers had a mission and a gun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sending virtual hugs to everyone; super tight, extra comforting, warm cookie hugs. I adore every one of your amazing comments and kudos. Please keep them coming. I LOVE LOVE LOVE talking about these sad, goofy, sexy, SUPER screwed up boys, so hit me up! Let’s chat! Also, answer this chapter’s trivia questions in the comments and I’ll send you virtual goodies & mad respect!
> 
> TRIVIA  
> 1\. Steve mentions that Bucky’s locker combination is 32-5-57. What are these numbers referencing?
> 
> 2\. What TV personality is Tony referencing in this passage?  
> Tony rolled his eyes and fiddled with the cherry stem hanging out of his mouth. “You should unlace your red Keds and stay awhile. You live here now, it’s okay to take off your cardigan.” 
> 
>  
> 
> MOOD MUSIC: [JessieLucidYouTube](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLbGnycMfOsiCcWGe0NomfBfx4qidExZbJ)
> 
>  
> 
> Radiohead- Pyramid Song (opening scene in pool)  
> My Chemical Romance- The Ghost of You (pool)  
> Avril Lavigne- Nobody’s Home (Bucky’s bedroom) (thx to MowgliRodd for this song suggestion)  
> NF- Mansion (feat. Fleurie) (Bucky’s Bedroom)  
> Jeff Buckley- Lover, You Should’ve Come Over  
> Logic & Rag n’ Bone Man- Broken People  
> Thirty Seconds to Mars- A Beautiful Lie  
> Radiohead- Videotape  
> Five Finger Death Punch- Gone Away  
> Shawn Mendes- In My Blood  
> NF- If You Want Love  
> Lana Del Rey- Heroin (for TJ)  
> The Sugarcubes- Birthday (my inspiration for TJ)  
> Nine Inch Nails- 27 Ghosts III  
> Radiohead- How to Disappear Completely  
> UNKLE & Sleepy Sun- Follow Me Down (Dave Sitek remix)  
> NF- Can You Hold Me (feat. Britt Nicole) (Steve in his apartment)  
> Nero- Into the Past (Reboot) (Steve in his apartment)  
> Breaking Benjamin- Red Cold River (Steve in his apartment)  
> Our Lady Peace- 4 am (Steve walking in the snow)  
> Mogwai- Kill Jester (Clint’s)  
> Chevelle- The Red (morning at Clint’s)  
> Tom Walker- Leave a Light On (mood for entire chapter)
> 
>  
> 
> Find my Stucky Art on Instagram & Tumblr
> 
> [JessieLucidArtInstagram](<a%20href=)">Instagram  
> [lucidnancyboyTumbr](<a%20href=)">Tumblr


	25. The Other Side

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back, wonderful people! Please be very, very, very mindful of the tags before reading this chapter. To be safe, here’s a list of the serious tags that apply: Specific/Detailed Underage Drug Use, Underage Drinking, Cheating (sort of) with Dubious Consent, Sexual Violence/Manipulation, Non-Con (not detailed), Violence/Abuse, Homophobic Language, Internalized Homophobia. If you need more specifics before reading, please feel free to message me.
> 
> My beta [Lorien](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Lorien/works) is a truly glorious human being. Please check out her wonderful Stucky art and send her some love on Tumblr. [drjezdzany](https://drjezdzanyart.tumblr.com)
> 
> Music is everything to my writing, and creating the soundtrack for this chapter was a unique and challenging experience. There are two playlists this time around. The first is the internal POV of the character (what he was hearing), and the second is the music that helped me, as the writer, develop his character. A few specific songs are cued throughout the chapter, and playing them while you read will give you a totally different perspective on the character’s state of mind. Find the track listings and the specific scenes that the songs inspired in the end notes (spoiler alert). For the full musical experience, find both Chapter 25 playlists on my YouTube channel. 
> 
> [Character Soundtrack](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Q50HZDu5Ck8&list=PLbGnycMfOsiA7xV4ksp9v2G-8wT0Emu0G)
> 
> [Writer’s Soundtrack](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=G1ZC7l2OkEA&list=PLbGnycMfOsiD-Wr1miQaAtiDHcZyP2Vyk)
> 
> Find my Stucky Art on Instagram & Tumblr  
> [JessieLucidArtInstagram](https://www.instagram.com/jessielucidart/?hl=en)  
> [lucidnancyboyTumbr](https://lucidnancyboy.tumblr.com)
> 
> Thank you for reading, Jessie :)

Doing things he shouldn’t. That’s what TJ did. Like it or not, even on the rare occasion when he tried to do the right thing, the wrong thing always won out in the end.

It hadn’t always been like that. Two years ago, when TJ’d snuck underneath the bleachers to meet the adorably handsome Bucky Barnes, it hadn’t been because he wasn’t supposed to. It hadn’t been about the thrill, the adrenaline, or the addictively devilish feeling that crept into TJ’s belly when he was doing something especially risky. All that shit had come after...

Rubbing at his temples with one hand, TJ groaned, because thinking about how much he’d genuinely liked Bucky gave him a headache, or, more precisely, made the headache that he already had even worse. Bucky Barnes had been TJ’s first real crush (his _only_ crush); and even surrounded by wormholes, it was easy to see why. Funny, cute, loud, crazy...Bucky’d been (and still was) all those things. In the stupidest ways, he’d made TJ feel special.

“Hey, cute boy,” Bucky chirped. “Why are you hidin’?”

TJ blew out a long breath between his fingers, used his hand to mold a lighthearted smile, then gazed up at the huge brick chimney.

Right now, Bucky was existing somewhere in the weeks before the two of them had shared their first kiss on that fateful day: smiling, laughing, recklessly jumping up and down on the very edge of the chimney in the leather jacket TJ’d given him during first hour. Looking at him, TJ’s stomach twisted, even as his smile grew wider; remembering how Bucky’d used TJ’s striped tie to bind their legs together in the bathroom stall like they belonged together. The bunny-eared bow had felt like Bucky’d sucked TJ into one of his wormholes, taking them both backwards to a place where the reason he’d met Bucky under the bleachers had come true...

Back then, he’d genuinely wanted to be Bucky’s boyfriend.

First kisses. First love. First everything. TJ recognized the emotions swirling around in the air, even though he’d only experienced one of them first hand.

“I bring you up to my secret rooftop getaway, and you’re not even gonna talk to me?” Stretching his arms wide, Bucky acted like he was directing an imaginary symphony (in his mind, he probably was). “TJ, TJ, TJ, you don’t have to be shy. It’s just you and me up here.”

If only that were true.

TJ nodded. Chewed a piece of skin off his top lip. Watched Bucky’s arms swaying to an imaginary beat. He really needed the Xanies he’d taken before they’d climbed up here to kick in. Once they took the edge off, he’d be able to really let himself go there. When he was high, it almost felt real sometimes: like he _was_ Bucky’s boyfriend. Jack had never snapped that picture, Brock had never set TJ up, and the innocence of first crushes and first kisses had lasted longer than seven short minutes in Heaven.

“Hey, Bucky.” TJ squinted into the sun, and Bucky’s arms froze in a graceful, conductor’s pose. “Can we stay here?”

“On the roof?” Switching positions, he adopted something more Egyptian. “I mean, they said it might rain later. Look at the storm clouds over there. We might be in for a deadly Sharknado later.”

TJ scanned the skyline, and it was blue as blue could be. Another reminder that, in this particular wormhole, falling in love with Steve Rogers and getting attacked by Brock Rumlow was still two years in Bucky’s future.

No matter how much he pretended, the blue sky slammed TJ back to reality. He _wasn’t_ Bucky’s boyfriend. He wasn’t _anyone’s_ boyfriend. If someone slapped a ‘Hi, My name is...’ nametag on his shirt, TJ could write ‘Fuck Toy’, ‘Slut’, ‘Whore’, ‘Masochist’, but not ‘Boyfriend’. He couldn’t even write ‘TJ’, because nobody thought about him without an addendum. He was ‘TJ the Addict’, or nothing at all.

Well, that was gonna change.

But, for now, _this_ Bucky...the one currently doing the running man on top of the chimney...made the fantasy that he was just ‘TJ’ again feel real; especially if he was high enough. But he _wasn’t,_ and reality was starting to bleed through the fantasy. This whole situation was fucked up. _TJ_ was fucked up. Bucky Barnes needed help _..._ _desperately.._ _._ and, for whatever fucking reason, it seemed like TJ was the only person who knew how bad it was.

But TJ did things he shouldn’t. It was who he was. And circumstances were making it all too easy for TJ to take his sweet time carefully setting up his chess board.

Instead of getting the hell off this roof, calling in the calvary, and leaving Bucky the hell alone, TJ squeezed his temples one more time before tucking in his navy dress shirt and buckling his belt. Leaning back against the big silver air conditioner, he shoved his hands in his pockets and squinted up at Bucky. He was trying to moonwalk.

“I knew you’d like the jacket,” TJ started, the devilish feeling in his stomach building, urging him to say more. “I saw it and knew it had to be yours.”

“This patch is cool.” Bucky poked at the red star on his right elbow before tucking his hair behind his ears. “Maybe I can get Clint to sew on a big patch on the back? Like the indecent Nirvana baby or the Bee Gees...not that the Gibb brothers are heavily featured at Hot Topic...but maybe we could cut up an old shirt, find something at Sal’s? Something cool. You could even help me pick it out...I mean, if you wanna hang out with me after school sometime.”

First dates...

Kicking a broken chunk of brick over the edge, Bucky stammered, “We, um...we don’t have to. I know your parents aren’t down, so, no pressure.” He was blushing, and TJ could almost see Bucky’s hair getting shorter, his shoulders shrinking, his features smoothing back to fifteen. “But do you think it would be cool if I added a patch? I mean, you paid for this. I don’t wanna…”

“It’s yours, Bucky,” TJ interrupted, sending a small smile right back. “I’m positive that anything you add will make it that much cooler.” Chuckling nervously (a real reaction from another time) TJ chewed at the skin on his lip. “And...I’d love to hang out, doing anything. That would be great.”

Doing things he shouldn’t. That’s what TJ did.

For example, when he’d spotted the black leather jacket on the mannequin in the window of the vintage shop on Sunday, there should’ve been an internal debate, some sort of moral back and forth, but TJ had yanked open the door hard enough that the bells had slammed against the glass, and had shelled out one-twenty, cash, without a second thought. He’d known it would fit Bucky like a glove. He’d wanted him to have it. So he’d bought it. Done.

Then he’d just had to wait. Bucky’s texts had been coming more and more frequently since the first unsolicited one had lit up his screen the day after Brock had been expelled...

  


Over two weeks ago:

 

Bucky Barnes: This is weird, but can we talk? Had a bad dream last nite. Think u might understand...

TJ: Sure. 1st hour?

Bucky Barnes: yeah. meet in bathroom. 3rd floor. Back hall.

  


And this morning, on the burner phone he’d bought just for Bucky:

 

DonnieDarko: Hey. Sry 2 bug u, but can we talk? Bad dream. It’s weird, but feel like u might understand?

DD2: Sure. 1st hour?

DonnieDarko: K. There’s a bathroom in the back hall. 3rd floor.

  


Instead of pretending that he’d never been in the stall with Bucky before, he should’ve called Natasha. Instead of spraying on an extra layer of the cologne that always made Bucky kiss his neck, he should’ve gone straight to Mr. Barnes. Instead of showing up with the jacket tucked under his arm, he should’ve texted Steve. But TJ did things he shouldn’t, and fate kept dropping intriguing opportunities in his lap. Not to mention, he’d unwittingly become addicted to the feeling of The Starboy’s hands.

“So, we’re actually gonna go on a real first date?” Bucky asked, zipping and unzipping the metal teeth as he tipped his head up towards the afternoon light. “‘Cause I’ve never gone on a real date, so this would be like a _first_ first date.”

“Me neither,” TJ replied far too quickly, speaking the whole truth for the first time today.

Laughing, Bucky let the jacket slide off his shoulders and threw TJ a wink. “So you’re a dating virgin too? Gonna let me pop that cherry?”

Before TJ knew what was happening, Bucky’d pulled off his white sweater and had thrown it in a high arc right at TJ’s face. It had happened so fast, making a direct hit before TJ could even react. He was shocked for a second, before realizing that throwing sweaters across rooftops was _fun._ ..that Bucky was _flirting_ _..._ and suddenly, he wanted to cry. Bucky stood above him on the very edge, flexing his muscles. The band of his underwear was hanging out of the top of his jeans, and the V of his hips made TJ’s craving unbearable.

TJ wished with his whole heart that it was true when he answered, “I have more than one cherry that I’d like you to pop.”

“Holy shit,” Bucky gasped, almost losing his balance. “Really? Like...sex?”

“I mean, let’s go to Sal’s...whatever that is...first.”

The way that Bucky was grinning at him, excited and maybe a little bit overwhelmed, made TJ wish that Bucky, not Brock, had been the one to fuck him the first time. Bucky would‘ve been sweet, gentle, and adorably awkward. TJ knew that for a fact. But TJ’s cherry popping reality had been Brock shoving his face against a concrete wall and making him bleed. Memorable. Bucky would’ve slowly kissed TJ’s lips, breathing into his mouth as he’d checked in before nervously trying to figure out how topping worked. TJ knew that for a fact too. Brock had spit in his face and had called him a ‘disgusting faggot’ when it was over. Bucky would’ve made him come, because Bucky _always_ made him come. Bucky would’ve made it _special._ They could’ve fallen in love…

He was about to say something else, but when he looked back up, Bucky’d put the leather jacket back on and was fiddling with the red cuff on his left wrist... _Steve’s cuff..._ and the moment was gone. Scoffing at himself, TJ felt hungry for the first time in two days. Fucking finally! The Xanies were kicking in...and just in time. When he got too sober, he got sappy, and getting distracted by ships that had sailed two years ago would only lead to chaos in a perfectly planned game.

Suddenly, Bucky landed in front of him; his blue sneakers making a big thud as both feet hit the roof at the same time. Then...silence. The stillness raised TJ’s hackles immediately.

It took a minute for it to happen: Bucky standing there facing him, the leather stretching beautifully over a chest that was so much broader than it had been in tenth grade, but the change was inevitable…

“Hey, Stevie,” Bucky drawled.

Goddammit! This was the worst one. And TJ was already pissed about that red piece of leather. He fought the urge to rip it off Bucky’s wrist and hurl it over the edge.

“Can we pick up Chinese on the way home? Not General Tso’s this time. I’m thinkin’ I’m in the mood for something a lil’ bit sweet and a lil’ bit sour. You know, like I was when you woke me up this morning...except not covered in sauce.” Snickering, _Steve’s_ Bucky stepped closer and slid his hand across TJ’s crotch. “Well, not the kind of sauce that comes with sweet and sour chicken at least.”

The hand gently squeezing TJ’s dick was a brutal reminder that he’d _never_ be Steve, no matter how many vintage leather jackets he bought, no matter how many times he wrapped his arms around his pillow at night and pretended, and no matter how many times he found himself in _Bucky and Steve’s_ bathroom stall getting reintroduced to Bucky’s stupid spider. TJ’d started calling this one ‘Red’, because it was the color Rogers had used to stake his claim.

“I’m not Steve,” TJ hissed, because he knew Bucky’d forget.

Not acknowledging or comprehending reality, lost to it somehow, Red used both hands to open the jacket, lining the zipper up with the edges of his nipples as he stared into TJ’s eyes. He was pure sex. Pure cool. Pure _love._ TJ hated him.

“Do I look more John Travolta or James Dean?” Red murmured, the words verging on cruel. TJ had no illusions that he was the one Red saw as he pushed him back against the air conditioner.

Swallowing the lump in his throat, TJ managed to say, “Neither,” even though he wanted to scream, ‘Look at me, Bucky! For the love of God, please, look at _me!’_

“Oh yeah?” Fingers slid into TJ’s belt loops for the second time since they’d climbed up here, although the first time Bucky’d been ‘fifteen’ and he’d been nervously tugging on _TJ’s_ pants, not his beloved _‘Steve’s’._ Running his nose under TJ’s jawline, Red moaned. “Then who do I look like, baby?”

“I don’t know,” TJ muttered, frowning despite getting hard in his hand. Bucky was flipping so fucking fast that he truly had no goddamn idea.

“You’re no fun,” he chided, hopping backwards. It was anyone’s guess who pinched TJ’s cheek. “You never wanna play my games: checkers or chess, Uno, Hungry Hungry Hippos, chubby bunny. I’ve gotta say, honey bunny, I think that you’d look fucking adorable with your cheeks all puffed out like a marshmallow loving chipmunk!”

TJ almost laughed, almost, because Bucky was supposed to be playing _his_ game; TJ’s unpredictable knight on a board full of pawns that TJ’d been controlling since Homecoming, when fate had presented TJ with a killer first move. But when Bucky did this...oozed sex, charisma, desire, humor, and power...all at the same fucking time...TJ didn’t feel in control of anything. It was stupid to ask _..._ _w ea k..._ but TJ had to know for sure. “You think _who’d_ look cute?”

Looking at TJ like he was crazy (which wasn’t fucking ironic in the slightest), he squished up his nose. “I just said, dipshit. You!”

“Yeah, dipshit,” TJ shot back spreading his own arms out wide; his dick hanging out of his pants as he tried his damnedest to push Bucky into a different wormhole. “But _who_ _am I?”_

Bucky’s head ticked to the right as he stumbled backwards a few feet, and TJ waited to see who the fuck he was gonna get. Spinning the wheel, gambling, leaving things up to chance...TJ didn’t like any of those things, but he liked Red even less. He tried to get his face under control, erasing the scowl as Bucky’s shoulders softened and the desire slid off the leather jacket like a snake shedding its skin. Thankfully, it left behind the Bucky who still loved blue.

Charging without warning, Bucky grabbed TJ around the waist and flipped him over his shoulder like he weighed nothing at all.

“Thomas Maxwell Campbell Jr,” Bucky chided. “I know you’re freaked the fuck out about Jack takin’ that picture yesterday, but it’s gonna be okay. Nobody can see us up here. No cameras. No assholes. No Brock Rumlows.”

Bucky spun around a few times, and almost tripped over a potted plant, before dropping TJ into a plastic chair. It wobbled hard enough that, for a second, TJ thought he was gonna tip over backwards, but Bucky’s hand shot out to catch the armrest.

He might not be falling, but TJ still felt unsteady, shocked, and maybe a little bit amazed, because Bucky remembered his full name. TJ’d only told him once, when Bucky had jogged past him in the hall sometime during the first week of tenth grade. TJ remembered it like it was yesterday, which, for Bucky, maybe it was. Flying past TJ, wearing a pair of cut-off overalls, a Duran Duran t-shirt, athletic socks pulled up to his knees, and floppy red boots with the laces dragging dangerously, Bucky’d spun around and had skidded to a stop in front of him. Then, adopting the voice of a really bad newscaster and holding a ‘microphone’ up to his mouth, he’d said, ‘Good afternoon, Mr. Campbell. Reporter Bobby B. Barnes here from 69 Action News: New York City’s leading authority on all things sexy.’ He’d given TJ a very exaggerated wink before adding, ‘The world needs to know, and it needs to know now. What, good sir, does the ‘T’ and the ‘J’ in ‘TJ’ stand for?’

It had been the first time Bucky’d really spoken to him, shown an interest, and TJ’d almost been too shocked to answer. Especially since Bucky’d dramatically thrust the imaginary microphone in his face, and Clint with his shaggy bleach blond hair and Daisy in a flowered dress had appeared out of nowhere behind Bucky, holding ‘cameras’ on their shoulders. Somehow, TJ had managed to spit out his name, and Bucky, seemingly satisfied with the answer, had walked backwards in his weird overalls, biting at his lip a little before jogging off through the crowd.

That had been the moment when TJ’s first crush had been born.

“So are you gonna let me kiss you again, or what?” Bucky’s hands were suddenly on his shoulders, and he was biting his lip the exact same way. He seemed oblivious that TJ’s half-hard dick was _still_ hanging out of his pants. “I know I can do better when we aren’t rudely interrupted. Much, _much_ better.”

TJ was going to hell. Not that he hadn’t been headed there already, but moments like this really sealed the deal. Brock had fucked Bucky up so much that time had lost all meaning, warping reality enough that Bucky Barnes…no...that wasn’t right...

Leaning his head against Bucky’s arm, ignoring the feeling of leather in favor of the memory of funny denim overalls, TJ decided that _this_ Bucky...the one who cared enough to know his real name...the one who wanted to kiss him...was named ‘Blue’.  

When TJ slid his hands underneath the jacket, he allowed his fingers to ghost over the waistband of Blue’s underwear like he was playing the piano. ‘Blue in Green’ by Miles Davis, from the quintessential jazz record, ‘Kind of Blue’. Letting his jaw relax, TJ tapped out the rhythm of the chords, imagining that Blue was the trumpet flowing over top, adding color, texture... _warmth._ TJ was surprised how easily the melody came back to him. The grand piano in his living room hadn’t been touched in well over a year.

The moment wouldn’t last long enough for the trumpet to give the saxophone its turn. These clandestine interludes always ended with the most lucid version of Bucky freaking out. TJ called him ‘Buck’, because he was too serious, too sad, and too fucking guilty to have a name as carefree as ‘Bucky’. Buck always told TJ that they had to stop talking...that this was _wrong..._ that _h_ e loved the brave and magnificent _Steve_...and that TJ needed to stay the fuck away from him. The same reality kept crashing back like a fucking freight train, inevitably leaving TJ alone, praying that his phone didn’t light up with Brock’s code for sex, or, even worse, praying that it would.

Before it could end, TJ glanced up at Blue’s face and slid further down in the chair, deeper into the blossoming high, and spread his knees wide. “So, you think you can do better, huh?”

“Oh, I know I can do better.” He smiled, all the way up to his eyes, and there was no getting around it: Brock might’ve been the one to fuck up Bucky’s brain, but Brock had turned TJ into the kind of person who said, “Prove it,” even though he’d performed the exact same scene Friday in the back corner of the library, and the day before that in the janitor’s closet next to the gym.

Stepping between his knees, Blue grabbed TJ’s striped tie and pulled it tight. But the way he said, “But I don’t have to prove _anything_ , baby,” sounded _nothing_ like tenth grade, _nothing_ like the way Bucky talked to Steve Rogers, and just like _everything_ that TJ’d ever wanted. This version of Bucky called himself The Starboy, and he was a very nice bonus. Every time he showed up, it rubbed the devilish feeling in TJ’s stomach just right. The person sliding his tongue into TJ’s mouth might not know his name, but the way he was rolling his hips against TJ’s stomach as he used the tie to pull him closer was a new kind of high. If he didn’t know better, TJ might call it love.

Letting himself get lost in the snake-like curves of The Starboy’s body, TJ welcomed the sensations...until their inevitable end.

Suddenly, TJ was shoved backwards, and this time, he _did_ fall.

“Why the hell are _you_ on my roof!?” Bucky snapped. “Who the fuck let you up here?”

It stung. Every damn time.

“You sent me a text.” TJ sighed, awkwardly rolling out of the chair. Not only had he hit the back of his head, but he’d landed in a wet spot (rain from Blue’s invisible storm clouds, perhaps?). He was done. He needed more than a few Xanax to deal with this shit. Standing up, TJ shoved his cock back in his pants for the third time today. “You said you needed to talk about Brock.”

Bucky squeezed his eyes together as he backed away, like the past hour had never existed. “I...I saw the way you looked in the stairwell this morning. When Frank told me and Steve that you called in the tip about Brock’s gun.”

Scratch that, if Bucky’d travelled all the way back to the Monday after Homecoming, it was like the past three _weeks_ had never existed.

“You looked so scared, TJ. You looked _exactly_ how I feel, and I...I just need to know. What’s Brock doing to you?”

The day after Brock had been expelled, Bucky had asked that question for the first time, and TJ’d given him an outdated version of the truth: ‘Blackmailing me for sex.’

Nothing had happened. Bucky’d just been Bucky (mostly). He’d asked about Brock. The gun. Introduced TJ to Fillmore the Spider. TJ’d told him the truth about Brock setting him up, the whole dramatic sob story. Pretended that’s all it still was. TJ hadn’t mentioned that he’d already started regretting making that phone call. Ten minutes, tops.

He’d lasted four days before crawling back to Brock. _Four fucking days_ before he’d been pinned to a bed while Brock had shoved a loaded gun up his ass as punishment; desperation making TJ fold before the game had even started. But then fate had handed him a brand new opportunity...

Little had he known, that while TJ’d been slumped in the corner, kicking himself for impulsively making a move on Brock before he’d been ready, Steve Rogers had been kicking the shit out of himself too, in a manner of speaking. When TJ’d heard that Steve had landed himself in the hospital, things had suddenly gotten a thousand times more interesting.

He’d sent Bucky a couple texts to test the waters, crafting them to sound appropriately concerned coming from a casual friend, just to see what happened...playing around, if you will. Unfortunately, Bucky hadn’t responded. Not even a ‘thx, man, I’m cool’. And with everything that had been going on, staring at his phone and waiting for a text that had never come had rubbed TJ the wrong way. Then, after Frank had called to tell him all about Steve’s daring and romantic hospital escape, how he’d walked miles and miles in the dead of night to reach his one true love, TJ’d started making fucking plans.

The next day, Bucky’d come back to school in a shockingly good mood, telling ‘yo mama’ jokes to anyone who’d gotten within three feet of him, flipping Tony off every few minutes at lunch, throwing pretzels at Clint (who’d shown up wearing the ugliest trucker hat TJ’d ever seen), and doing handstands outside the computer lab. All normal Bucky behavior. But every time TJ had caught his eye, shooting him a sympathetic grin while he’d dipped his chin, Bucky’s behavior had shifted to something that had been _anything_ but normal. Bucky’s haunted glances had reinvigorated the game, adding dimensions to the playing field that TJ never could have imagined. String Theory providing even more strings. 

Bucky’s second text had arrived during fifth hour, and TJ’d skipped European History to meet Fillmore the Spider for the second time. After quickly figuring out that Bucky was _not_ okay, TJ’d spouted out the abridged version of the truth about Brock (again), had ‘thoughtfully’ asked about Steve, making a real effort to seem sympathetic as Bucky’d told him every last detail about his boyfriend’s cuts, bruises, and breaks. Then, seeing just how far he could push things, TJ’d lightly touched Bucky’s arm, providing a little bit of comfort in his time of need.

Brock Rumlow had been _very interested_ when TJ’d ‘accidentally’ let that juicy little tidbit slip the next time TJ’d begged for a refill.

But today, because TJ was tired of all the flip-flopping, and because this wormhole was particularly exhausting, he went with the lie. “Same as he does to you. Brock calls me names, pushes me around, grabs me when nobody’s looking, hits me if he’s feeling particularly angry about being a ‘sexual deviant’. It all sucks.” He purposely kept his hands in his pockets, leaving Bucky’s arm hanging there, uncomforted. “Believe me, Bucky, I understand exactly what you’re going through.”

“But he had a gun…”

For fuck’s sake.

Scrubbing his hand over his mouth, TJ tried not to groan. Why couldn’t Bucky flip back to his third text? That was a place in time that TJ could live over and over, without complaint. A week after he’d touched Bucky’s arm, rubbing his skin in the most subtle way, TJ’d been sitting with Charlie, Harry, a couple girls that were into the twins, and fucking _Rollins,_ sneaking targeted glances across the cafeteria. When Bucky’d finally met his gaze, it had felt different...dangerous. TJ’s phone had lit up a few seconds later...

  


Bucky Barnes: Do u like blueberries?

TJ: No. they’re gross.

Bucky Barnes: Daisy tried 2 give me a blueberry pop tart.

TJ: okay???

Bucky Barnes: I need 2 get out of here

TJ: out of school?

Bucky Barnes: out of my head…

  


TJ’d jerked his head up just in time to see Bucky standing up and swatting at Clint’s blue man bun before he’d leaned in to kiss Daisy’s cheek. Words had been exchanged with Stark, and he’d high fived Sam; making everything look effortlessly normal as he’d walked out the door.

Quite frankly, TJ had been impressed.

Bucky’d been waiting by the stairs; and the second TJ’d made eye contact, he’d led him up to the fourth floor exit to the parking garage without a backwards glance.

Doing things he shouldn’t. That’s what TJ did.

The windows of TJ’s BMW were tinted, dark, illegal (he gotten about twenty tickets), so there’d been no possible way that anyone could have seen TJ get pulled across the backseat of his car to straddle Bucky’s muscular legs, his grey jeans ripped in all the right places. And even if they had, they wouldn’t have believed their eyes. Bucky Barnes just wasn’t the ‘cheating type’. Especially cheating on someone as wonderful and perfect as Steve Rogers with _TJ the Addict._ Even TJ’d been taken off guard, because jumping from _one_ secret, and a mostly innocent touch, to Bucky cupping TJ’s ass and grinding their hips together had been zero to sixty in _way_ less than sixty seconds. Bucky’d been hard as he’d whispered, ‘make it stop,’ against TJ’s neck; and those three words had sent TJ’s mind reeling, calculating, figuring things out even as Bucky’d slowly unbuckled TJ’s belt. But then, Bucky had buried his nose in the space just above TJ’s collarbone and had murmured, ‘God, baby, you smell so damn good. What’s your name?’

In that moment everything had become crystal clear...

Bucky Barnes was losing his goddamn mind.

But the person who’d introduced himself as The Starboy’d had such confident hands as he’d unzipped TJ’s pants. And the fantasy TJ’d defaulted to since the very beginning, whenever Brock’s hands tearing open his zipper had been too much to handle, had been coming true. Bucky might not have known who the fuck he was; but when their lips had met for the first time in two years, TJ hadn’t cared. Bucky might’ve been going off the deep end; but when he’d licked his finger and had slid it down the back of TJ’s underwear almost lovingly, TJ’d realized that sometimes it’s the most unpredictable pieces that win the game.

Sighing at the frantic expression currently overtaking Bucky’s face, TJ put his comforting hands on his shoulders. He wasn’t high enough to deal with this right now, and he needed to hit the reset button. Bucky’d text him again. He just had to wait a day or two. In the meantime, he’d send Brock a few messages, pump his ego up with a bunch of shit about ‘following his orders’, and get him off his back for a few days too. TJ just had to plant the seeds.

Making sure to stand a little too close, TJ looked Bucky right in the eye and said, “Do you think _Steve_ will like the jacket I bought for you? If you ask me, it makes you look like the perfect mixture of John Travolta _and_ James Dean.”

Bucky blinked, then blinked again, stepping backwards and pausing a beat before quickly shrugging out of the jacket. TJ clenched his jaw and waited. It hadn’t taken long to figure out that Steve’s name was usually the perfect trigger to remove the ‘y’ from Bucky’s name and yank him back to the present. Any second now...

“I can’t talk to you anymore, TJ. This is so fucked up...it has to stop.” Buck’s hand gripped the leather, realizing what it was… “And stop buying me gifts! You know damn well that I’m in love with Steve.”

Bingo.

Backing up towards the ladder, TJ quickly said, “No problem, Buck. I understand. No harm, no foul. But keep the jacket. I put a little something in the top pocket for you, just in case you need some help getting through the day. I know with Steve being hurt and all that things are kinda rough.”

Buck scowled at him, but he didn’t let go of the jacket. He just let it dangle from his left hand as he turned east, staring out towards the Hudson.

Planting the seeds. Moving the pieces. Pulling the strings. Doing things he shouldn’t. That’s what TJ did.

“You need to go,” Buck whispered before he slowly lifted up the jacket and unzipped the pocket. After digging out two of the Vicodins TJ’d slipped inside this morning, he lowered his chin and said, “Get out of here, TJ, before I do something I can’t take back.”

When TJ climbed down down the ladder, he could feel The Starboy’s come dripping down his thighs, and two words came to mind...

Too late.

*

  
  


“You let that dirty cunt fuck your mouth in the backseat of your car again, didn’t you?”

Brock had just finished hauling the last piece of plywood up from the basement and was busy bitching while he leaned it against the wall in the second floor bedroom of the ‘café’. And TJ? He was itching. Hot. Cold. Pissed. And trying not to crawl up the fucking walls as he huddled in the middle of the bed jonesing.

‘Café’ being the code name for Brock’s top-secret safe house. Nobody knew about it outside Carlisle Rumlow’s inner circle. Not Jack Rollins. Not Frank Castle. Not anybody...well, except for TJ. See, TJ often got coded texts (Brock loved _complex_ codes) that said ‘café @8’ (meaning he wanted to fuck TJ at the safe house at 8:00), or ‘café @9:15 (meaning he wanted to fuck TJ at the safe house at 9:15). It was all very sophisticated.

The nondescript brownstone was only two blocks behind the Rumlow residence: a property that had been in the Rumlow family since bootlegging times. The keys had been handed with a big bow on Brock’s seventeenth birthday last year. Nothing on paper, of course. TJ suspected that Carlisle had given Brock a fucking _house_ for two reasons. One, because it kept Brock out of Carlisle’s hair (Brock was the black sheep in a goddamn _herd_ of black sheep), and two, because the tunnel that stretched underground between the two houses meant that the blackest sheep wasn’t completely out of reach; not that Carlisle had ever checked up on him. There was also a back door, accessible from an alley that Rumlow’s goons regularly swept for cameras, bugs, prying eyes...just like they did for all the Rumlow properties. Before this game, Brock had really been underutilizing this place. Playing video games and having internalized-homophobic-hate-sex didn’t typically require 2,000 square feet of prime Manhattan real estate.  

“God, you’re such a fucking whore,” Brock growled, doing something with tools...whatever...

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” TJ mumbled, because he was so nauseous that he didn’t give a flying fuck what Brock was rambling about _or_ how he’d used the nefarious table saw in the basement to cut the plywood for the windows with a huge fucking smile on his face like a Class C Serial Killer (puppets didn’t qualify for Class A).

“I told you, I don’t like sticking my dick in the same mouth as that lunatic’s dirty cock.” Throwing open the lid of the old toolbox (which looked like it had been around since they’d run whiskey through the tunnels too), Brock went off like he always did. “If I didn’t know how much it’s gonna kill Rogers’ to find out that his precious _Bucky’_ s been slutting it up with your faggot ass, I wouldn’t put up with it. That pompous asshole won’t even know what hit him when all this goes down.” Digging around, making too much fucking noise, he threw out a hammer and a couple wrenches before pulling out a bunch of long screws. Pointing a finger at TJ, Brock hissed, “But I’m not playin’ around. If you let that weirdo fuck you, you’re dead. Understand?”

As Brock asserted his dominance, making it clear what TJ _could_ and _couldn’t do_ when it came to Bucky Barnes, TJ took great pleasure in nodding his head and looking appropriately frightened while he thought about how good it had felt to ride The Starboy’s perfect dick for half an hour after school. Before everything had gone sideways.

Brock picked up the drill (his own version of a big red Corvette compensating for a smaller than average cock) and spewed out his favorite accusation. “You know as well as I do, if Rogers hadn’t talked that twink into joining the swim team, _my_ swim team, your dumb ass wouldn’t have gone off your fuckin’ rocker and gotten me kicked outta school. Rogers flaunting that cock sucker in front of you...giving you all sorts of fucking ideas. I swear, I’m never gonna forgive you that. _Never.”_

Same shit, different day. At least with Bucky, things were always interesting. He was gonna puke at any fucking second. He needed to move this shit along.

“Brock...you promised.”

He stuck the screws between his lips and mumbled, “We’ll see how Rogers likes it when I take something away from _him._ Fucking asshole.”

One thing TJ didn’t like was being ignored, especially by a pathetic pawn like Brock. _Something else_ TJ didn’t like was being this fucking sick! Every day it had been getting worse. Last night, he hadn’t slept at all; hours and hours of tossing and turning. And now, he was bouncing back and forth between hot and sweaty, and cold and sweaty so fucking fast that he was trapped in an endless cycle of wrapping the blanket around himself, then throwing it off three minutes later. And Brock fucking knew! The prick. But he kept spewing out shit about Steve, Steve, Steve, making TJ suffer. Another thing TJ hated was giving back Brock even a sliver of control…

“C’mon, I’m fucking sick…”

“If you don’t shut your whore mouth, I’ll make you flush everything down the toilet while I fuck you with the end of the hammer!”  

Turning his back, Brock tested the drill, and the sound made TJ flinch. It was overly loud in the small space, and the goosebumps popped up on his arms again. The sickness was crossing over into a new kind of hell, and, for fuck’s sake, now his dick was throbbing. Withdrawal always made TJ uncomfortably horny…oh, who was he fucking kidding?...it was an automatic response to Brock’s threat. The truth was, withdrawal or not, the more sadistic Brock got, the harder TJ’s dick got. Cause and effect. That’s why TJ texted first sometimes: doing things he shouldn’t... _liking_ things he shouldn’t...and getting off on Brock Rumlow doing his worst.

He was tempted to punch the wall to try and make the unbearable kicking feeling in his legs stop or to dig his nails into his thighs to dull the realizations that being sober brought, but he yanked the blanket back around his shoulders and stared at his watch instead. Swear to god, the second hand was ticking backwards. Why couldn’t it be the hour hand? Spinning in reverse fast enough to overheat and burn, taking him forever backwards to Bucky’s blue fifteen.

When TJ’d texted Brock today, it hadn’t been for another round of guns and hammers...it had been all about the drugs. Running his hand over the four giant goose eggs on the side of his head, TJ touched his swollen tongue to the back of his teeth. It hurt. All of it. Yeah, The Starboy had fucked TJ nice and slow in the car, teaching him that riding a cock could actually feel good, but it was what had happened _after_ that had made TJ so fucking desperate. He _needed_ what Brock had promised, and he needed it _now._ Something new. Something better. Something _stronger._ Because Oxys and Vics weren’t cutting it anymore. Not even close.

Not to mention that Daddy was in his shit again. _And_ fucking Rogers was back at school, all lovey-dovey and stupid. _And_ his coke hook-up, Lance, who also happened to be Daddy’s golf-buddy, had been ‘too tired’ Saturday night to write TJ’s paper for his Technical Writing Class like he’d promised, even though TJ had let the asshole dry dock him in his five-thousandth rape fantasy. Brock had no idea about Lance. Over the summer, TJ’s coke habit had gotten so big that necessity had come into play, and he’d added Mr. Saggy Balls to the stable. Whatever. TJ wasn’t gonna have to blast rails off Lance’s forty-two-year-old ass for much longer. But the point was, now that bitch teacher, Mrs. Hanson, was in his shit about the paper. _And_ the smell of Brock’s sour sweat was about to make him puke. _And_ the sound of the drill. _And_ he was fucking hot again.

Throwing off the blanket, TJ unbuttoned his soaking wet shirt and tried not to think about how badly Bucky’d hurt him: hurt his head, hurt his feelings...feelings he didn’t even know he had anymore. He needed it to stop! His voice was shaky when he said, “You promised you’d hook me up, Brock.”

“And I will!” he snapped, because he _always_ snapped. “But you need to stop fucking whining and help me get these up first. Stark’s party’s in three days, and we’re runnin’ outta time to set this shit up. So, c’mon, get your junkie ass over here and hold the wood in place while I screw it in.”

If TJ asked again, Brock would make him wait longer. If he yelled, Brock probably wouldn’t hook him up at all. Actually, if he yelled, Brock might knock him out cold _and_ fuck him with the hammer (in that order). Placing his bare feet on the floor, TJ let his shirt fall off the rest of the way before pressing his palms flat against the plywood. Brock had measured it carefully to keep out the light, cutting it precisely to block out prying eyes, and a layer of styrofoam had already been duct taped into the space in front of the curtain to keep in the screams...

When Brock powered in the first screw with one long motion, the vibration from the drill made TJ’s teeth hurt. When the second one went in, Brock side-eyed him and ground the screw in hard enough to strip it. When Brock’s upper lip curled, TJ knew he’d fucked up.

“So you _did_ let that pussy touch you again.” Brock had two screws sticking out between his lips as he stepped closer. He looked like an industrial walrus. And, Jesus, he smelled so fucking bad...

Suddenly, the drill bit was jammed against his chest, right over the hickey that Blue had gently sucked into TJ’s skin as he’d woven his checkered boot laces through the button holes of TJ’s shirt. The hickey that TJ’d completely forgotten about, because getting your head slammed into a window repeatedly will do that to a guy.

“Yeah, but I…”

“I fucking told you not to let that queer mark you up!” Brock snarled, his finger twitching on the trigger of the drill. “But you just can’t help yourself, can you!?”

If Brock squeezed, the drill bit would puncture his heart.

Pressing it hard enough to hurt, he hissed, “You just _love_ having that dirty faggot’s hands all over you. Don’t pretend you don’t.”

“Brock, please…”

“Please, what?” He dragged the drill down the center of TJ’s chest, scraping a long line across his stomach before stabbing it right into the shaft of TJ’s hard dick. Brock chuckled when he got there, tipping up his chin so their lips were inches apart. His breath smelled like cigarettes. “If you let that fairy mark you up again, I’ll do more than threaten you with this drill. Got it?”

When Brock added more pressure, the moan that escaped TJ’s lips was completely beyond his control.

“Jesus Christ,” Brock scoffed, backing up and lining up another screw. “You’re a real piece of work, you know that?”

The only word TJ could manage was, “Whatever,” before he leaned his full weight against the wood.

“Yeah, ‘whatever’, my ass.” He drilled in the screw before looking at TJ with the weirdest expression...almost...nice? “Don’t go falling in love with that freak like a pathetic dog, TJ. You aren’t built for it.”

A landslide of desires hit TJ all at once. He wanted to puke all over Brock’s work boots. He wanted to drop to his knees and rub his face against Brock’s crotch, open his mouth and let him run the drill over his teeth. He wanted Blue to giggle before he kissed TJ for the ‘second’ time, slow and sweet, over and over and over. He wanted The Starboy to make him come twice in a row. He wanted The Lunatic to grab him by the hair and bash his head into the glass until it shattered. He wanted to fall in love to a soundtrack of jazz or a modern take on the Delta Blues. But one desire beat out all the rest: he wanted to get high.

“I’m not falling in love with _anybody,_ ” TJ lied. “Bucky freaked out about skipping some Halloween shit with Steve, and I listened to him bitch, softened him up just like we talked about. And if it takes letting the guy suck on my chest for a few minutes to get the pills down his throat, then you’re gonna have to deal with it.”

“Oh, I see, now you’re tellin’ _me_ what _I_ have to deal with?”

Brock ran a closed fist across his mouth, smacked his lips...scowled. TJ was gonna have to go at this another way if he wanted to stop fucking twitching: a Hail Mary play at the point of desperation.

“I did what you said,” he whispered quietly, all wimpy and pathetic. Feed the ego. Show his belly to the alpha. Make himself small like a frightened child. It was all too much fucking work today. “I fed him the story again, Brock. The one about how scared I was that day you dumped coffee on my laptop and forced me to suck your big dick in the alley behind Birch Coffee.” TJ glanced up, trying not to cringe. ‘Big’ had probably been a step too far. But Brock looked like he was eating it up, so…collapsing his shoulders even further, TJ bit his bottom lip, opened his eyes just the right amount, and really laid it on thick. “That’s the one that makes Bucky feel really sorry for me.”

“You _did_ suck my dick in the alley behind Birch Coffee,” Brock growled, dominance restored. “And don’t forget that _you_ were the one who wanted it...practically begged me for it.” Securing the bottom corner, he puffed up his chest. “And I _told_ you, stop telling that faggot that I fucked up your computer! What if he sees you using the damn thing at school and remembers? So fuckin’ sloppy.”

TJ knew damn well it had been sloppy. That’s why he’d spun that particular tale in Bucky’s ear, then had spun it again, and _again._ That’s why he purposely pulled out his laptop every day at lunch, typing a bunch of nonsense while Steve suggestively placed french fry after french fry into Bucky’s open mouth, or Bucky pretended to listen to Sam going on and on about the stupid swim team, or Bucky ran around snapping selfies with random people _and_ their lunches, or poked Skinner, or messed up his sister’s hair, or sat on Stark’s lap...whatever. But Bucky hadn’t noticed the laptop. Hadn’t even looked TJ’s way _one time._ And why would he? He was too busy putting on his very own ‘one’-man show to figure out anything about anything. And the versions of Bucky who _did_ look his way once in a while had absolutely no idea that TJ’s computer had been ‘ruined’ by Brock Rumlow. And maybe TJ had known that? Dropping half-hearted, guilty breadcrumbs on a path that everyone was too fucked-up to follow.

As soon as the final corner was secure, TJ stumbled backwards and grabbed his backpack off the floor because he couldn’t wait another fucking minute. Digging out his empty bottle of Oxys, he thrust it towards Brock. “C’mon Brock, I need a refill.”

“I’m not your fuckin’ drug dealer. Get it yourself.”

“Really?” TJ laughed outright. “That’s funny. ‘Cause I seem to remember you getting me this bottle, and the one before that, and…”

“Watch your fucking tone!”

TJ was quickly losing control, which was something he hated. The fucking _itch_ was the one with the tone, and it was getting harder and harder to stop it. Impossible, actually.

“I’m giving half my supply to Bucky!” he screamed (it was more like a quarter, but Brock didn’t need to know that). “If you want me to keep doing this shit, you have to keep up your end of the fucking deal!”

It was the first time he’d ever screamed _at_ Brock, and if every cell of TJ’s body wasn’t screaming even louder, he might’ve been concerned. But Brock just chuckled, tossed the drill on the corner of the bed, and lightly shoved TJ back onto the mattress like he was made of paper. In two years, Brock Rumlow had _never_ shoved him gently.

“I already told you, I brought somethin’ real special...along with a number to keep you in business...but the Vics and Oxys keep flowing to Steve’s whore. Got it?”

If TJ tried to answer, he’d puke. So he nodded; his head pounding with the motion, his tongue throbbing and swollen, the places where his hair had been ripped out still stinging. And he kept nodding even after Brock had left the room, thinking about the horrible things that the worst version of Bucky had said after TJ’d been stupid enough to forget that nothing was real...

  
  


“Why do you always wear such weird socks?” TJ laughed, casually rubbing his fingers up and down the arch of Bucky’s foot as he sunk further into the corner of the backseat.

Bucky’d blown off Halloween shopping with his friends, his sister, and _Steve_ to hang out with TJ after school. Shockingly, after The Starboy had taught TJ just how good riding someone could feel and Blue had woven his checkered shoelaces in and out of the buttonholes on TJ’s shirt while he’d sucked on his chest, Bucky’d become just _Bucky..._ and he hadn’t freaked out. In fact, after passing the flask back and forth a few more times, TJ almost felt like he didn’t need it, like the version of Bucky who didn’t travel through Donnie Darko’s wormholes was starting to _like_ spending time with him.

Wiggling his toes, Bucky smiled. “Well, TJ, darling, that’s an easy one. Because fat cat socks are fucking hilarious. I mean, c’mon, look at those lil’ bellies. You know you love ‘em, wanna scratch ‘em for an hour, jiggle ‘em around like a big bowl of fuzzy Jello, take your time plantin’ slobbery kisses on every single one...”

“Does Steve like your socks?” TJ blurted out, because he never could leave well enough alone. All or nothing, that was his MO. God, why the fuck had he said that?

Any second now...

Flexing his foot in TJ’s hand, Bucky offhandedly asked, “Who’s Steve?” before poking TJ’s nose with his big toe.

Well, that was new. Not at all who TJ’d thought he was dealing with, but a Bucky who didn’t know Steve? That was something he could work with. Plus he was too blissed out on _amazing_ sex and wacky cat socks to be overly picky. After all, slow and steady won the race.

“Can I give you a nickname?” TJ asked, biting his bottom lip and rubbing his cheek against the sole of Bucky’s foot.

“What’s wrong with Bucky?”

“Nothing. I just thought that since I like you so much...” TJ felt himself blushing, which was also new. “...that I could, I don’t know, call you something special.” Really, he was starting to have a hard time keeping track of everyone who lived inside of Bucky’s head, but still, the blushing felt nice...

“It’s my cat socks, right? They’re making you fall desperately in love with me.” The new guy winked at him, rubbing his foot down the side of TJ’s neck. “They’re irresistible, I know. And only because I’ve got you under some kind of mystical kitty pheromone spell, I’ll allow your nickname...as long as it’s a good one, like Master Bator or Lord of the Pies.”

TJ cracked up. Nothing contrived about it, just laughing at something funny. It felt amazing. “Okay, how about this? What’s your favorite kind of cat?”

“Oh, that’s easy peasy lemon squeezy. I’m _all in_ for the regal Scottish Fold ‘cause their ears look like pizza slices.”

TJ had no idea what he was talking about, but it didn’t matter. He already had the name. “Okay, then. How about Scotty?”

“Like, ‘Beam me up, Scottie?’” He snickered with a little shrug. “I mean, sure. It’s better than ‘Pizza’ or ‘Fold’.”

Without thinking, just _doing,_ TJ planted slobbery kisses all over Scotty’s foot, feeling something in his stomach that he thought might be _real_ love. Grinning: big, happy, and uncensored, TJ played the first chord of ‘Round Midnight’ by Thelonious Monk on the top of Scotty’s foot, then added the run up his ankle. If everything went as planned, maybe Bucky Barnes would sit next to TJ at the piano and listen to him play the melody for real? After three obnoxiously wet kisses on three very fat cats, TJ nibbled a little at an orange tabby on Scotty’s ankle before lightly biting at the black and white kitty curling over his little toe…

“Get the fuck off of me!”

Without warning, TJ got kicked in the temple... _hard_...blood instantly filling his mouth from biting his tongue as his head snapped sideways towards the window. He was pinned in the corner in an instant, his hair getting ripped out at the roots as his head was smashed against the glass.

“Spit it out! Spit out my fucking toe, or I’ll jam my thumbs into your blueberry eyes! _Now,_ Brock!” He bashed TJ’s head even harder, pounding in time with the words. “Spit! It! Out!”

TJ wrapped his arms around the lunatic’s violently contracting back, desperately trying to cling to him as his weight crushed TJ’s chest and thighs. All he could do was wait for it to be over as the piano slammed shut, the echo of ‘Round Midnight’s’ minor notes overtaking the chords; a fitting end to their seven minute love story.

When The Lunatic (because that’s what he fucking was) finally let go and skittered backwards into the opposite corner, TJ was hit with an undeniable string of thoughts: Fuck you, Bucky Barnes! Fuck your socks! Fuck your twelve personalities! Fuck your laugh. Fuck your smile. Fuck your soft kisses. Fuck the way you make me feel! Fuck the way you _fuck!_ Fuck you _and_ your stupid boyfriend! And fuck falling in love. Fuck it all!

Spitting a mouthful of blood at the glass, _somebody_ (it was anyone’s guess at this point) stared back at TJ with huge, frightened eyes, gasping, “There’s no sunshine in here, it got swallowed by your hair.”

TJ didn’t even pretend to care.

The flask had landed under the driver’s seat, filled with a perfect mix of Aged Rum, with notes of butterscotch, and the last of the Vicodin cough syrup he’d stolen from Lance’s medicine cabinet for Homecoming: the night that had truly started it all. Kings, queens, and pawns. Drugs, whiskey, and fruity, red punch. Expensive suits on inexpensive lunatics. Dirty blow jobs, wanted or unwanted. And one idiotic, impulsive moment when TJ’d been stupid enough to think that he could be anything more than Brock Rumlow’s bitch. Only a complete fool would believe that getting Brock kicked out of Eaton could somehow make a beautiful, funny boy who’d kissed TJ _once_ love someone like _him._

TJ grabbed the flask and threw it across the car into his lap. “Drink up, Barnes. It might help you figure out which way Frank the Bunny went.”

Shaky hands undid the cap, Barnes’ fingers twitching unnaturally on the metal as he chugged the rest in one long swig, keeping his eyes wide open the whole time. With the amount of Vicodin TJ’d poured in there, Freak Show would be lucky if he didn’t OD.

When the flask was empty, there was a pause as Barnes’ eyes closed, the twitching hand releasing and allowing the flask to fall. Complete stillness. TJ watched in shock as his face lost all tension, and the rise and the fall of his chest stopped completely. TJ had taken five breaths, and still...nothing. Fumbling behind himself, TJ searched for the door handle, the lock, anything...but before he could find it, Barnes’ eyes snapped open, unblinking, and a deep voice said, “28 days...6 hours...42 minutes...12 seconds,” before he carefully set his feet back in TJ’s lap.

TJ squeezed his eyes shut. In his entire life, he’d never been so scared.

Then he felt it: toes wiggling against his crotch. Cautiously, TJ looked up, and Bucky Barnes was smiling...

“I love these socks,” he blurted out, sliding his toes over TJ’s belly button. Despite the smile, it felt like a threat. “I love them so much, _TJ,_ that if there was a fire, and I had to choose between either saving these socks or saving you, these fat cats would win by a mile...”

 

  
  
  
TJ was still nodding at nothing when Brock stomped back in the room. A black bag landed next to him on the bed. A chair was dragged in from the hall. A cup of water set on top. Then Brock knelt down in front of him. Every part of TJ was shaking, tremors running up and down his spine, electrical zaps lighting up his eyeballs, and he didn’t give a flying fuck about cats _or_ burning alive in Bucky Barnes’ fucking fire. The only thing he cared about was what was inside the goddamn bag. Right now, that’s what was pulling the strings.

“You’re running through the pills too fast ‘cause you’re a greedy whore,” Brock snarled, tossing a fresh bottle in the middle of the bed. He put his hand on the zipper. “Can’t get enough dick, can’t get enough drugs...”

Unzip it. Unzip it. Unzip it. Unzip it.

“I set it up with my man, Shen Shen, so you can get all this shit yourself, ‘cause I’m not your fuckin’ drug dealer anymore. Understand?”

TJ must have nodded, because Brock slowly undid the zipper. The second hand ticking backwards. Hurry. Hurry. Hurry.

The things Brock set on the chair were unexpected...or maybe they weren’t. It didn’t matter either way. TJ fixated on the spoon as Brock pulled a cigarette from behind his ear, took his zippo out of his back pocket, grabbed one of the little white packets...tossed a needle in the center of it all.

“You’d better not kill yourself with this shit. The Chinese have the good stuff, and I only want you to deal with this guy, Shen Shen. His gang doesn’t mess with that hillbilly shit that’s been killin’ everyone. You don’t touch _anything_ from Mexico. If you even _think_ someone says ‘China White’, you walk away. You hear me, TJ? Shen Shen’s dope is strong. Pure. Not heavily cut. When he showed me how to do this, he said only do one pack at a time. _One._ ” Brock carefully unfolded the paper, which, for some reason, turned out to be a lottery ticket, then poured the powder into the bent spoon. Pulling a little piece of the filter out of the cigarette, he rolled it between his fingers. Around and around and around. “Hey, are you fuckin’ paying attention? I’m only showing you this once.”

TJ wasn’t sure if he was paying attention or not. The curve of the spoon was catching the light from the lamp as Brock dropped the cotton in the middle and uncapped the needle. TJ’d seen heroin in movies. Only in movies…

“Jesus Christ, TJ, you’re so pathetic. Stop drooling and fuckin’ watch! Four or Five cc, not much.” He stuck the tip in the water, pulled the plunger back slowly. “The cotton’s like a filter.” He squirted the water into the spoon. Lifted it up. Flicked his lighter. “Cook it till it melts, bubbling but not boiling. Like this.” It smelled like exhaust, but sweeter.

Brock set the spoon back down. Sucked the liquid into the needle. “You have to flick it to get the air bubbles out, or you’ll fuckin’ give yourself an aneurysm.” The tapping sound made TJ’s heart flutter. If he wasn’t so sick, he might be ashamed. If Bucky hadn’t said that his life was worth less than a pair of socks, he might have cared.

Standing up, Brock pulled his belt out of his pants, making them drop low on his hips. “You want this?” He held the needle up, and TJ knew what was coming. He didn’t even try to stop the tears as he nodded.

“Then get on your fucking knees and earn it.”

The whole time TJ sucked his dick, Brock held up the needle like a carrot; sneering down at him, calling him a pussy, a junkie, a cum dumpster...but none of it stung as much as when Bucky’d literally thrown himself out of the car to get away from him. And when Brock couldn’t come, when he closed his eyes and called TJ ‘Steve’ as he shoved his dick so far down his throat that TJ couldn’t breathe, it stung even worse.

When it was over, TJ didn’t bother spitting; letting the taste fester as the belt was wrapped around his arm. Brock yanked the buckle backwards till it hurt, then jammed the leather between TJ’s teeth.

Bucky got red cuffs snapped around his arm in epic displays of love and affection...

TJ got leather belts pinching his skin and sadists slapping his veins...

“Make a fist, and don’t fucking move. I only did this once to some smacked out bitch at Shen Shen’s place, and it took me three goddamn tries.”

Brock leaned close, and TJ had the bewildering urge to kiss the top of his greasy black hair and murmur ‘thank you’ as the needle slid into his vein.

“Pull back...slow. You have to see blood before you shoot it.” A plume of red burst up the center, beautifully, and Brock reversed the flow in one easy move. The second it blasted up TJ’s arm, tingling up the base of his neck and hitting his brain in one big whoosh, he knew, without a doubt, that he’d found his drug of choice.

Brock was saying something... “God, that was so much easier than hitting that ragged junkie... I wish we could make Rogers watch when we shoot this shit into his twink...” but TJ was already collapsing backwards onto the bed into a place without words. Sinking into the rush as his muscles melted and detached, forgetting about _everything_ as his brain sung a hymn of gratitude and his blood caught fire.

*

  
  


Bucky had strolled into the party looking like nothing TJ’d ever seen: towering over the crowd in a pair of fucking _platform heels,_ long red feathers cascading over his shoulders, and silver sequins reflecting the orange Halloween lights whenever he walked, danced, or, more and more over the course of the past hour, _stumbled._

And TJ was painfully sober, watching it all unfold.

Wandering the perimeter of the dance floor for almost an hour, TJ’d kept his black mask over his eyes and had made sure that plenty of people had seen him holding an empty glass. He’d dumped the Rum and Coke into an Art Nouveau vase without taking a sip because perception was everything. While Bucky Barnes’ fucked up brain beamed him aimlessly from reality to reality, TJ’s mind maneuvered the pieces to _build_ realities for everyone around him. And, if he had to say so himself, he was getting really fucking good at it.

Brock’s ‘orders’ had been clear: ‘Make sure you’re seen… Complain about feeling sick to Rogers’ crowd… Say the drinks are too strong… Tell people you’re gonna head home early… Work your fairy magic.’ Followed by the inevitable threats: ‘Your junkie ass better not fuck this up, _TJ,_ or I’ll kill you… Show up high, _TJ,_ and you’re dead… It’d be so easy to get rid of you now, _TJ,_ just load you up real good and wait for you to stop breathing. Let your new dirty habit do the job.’

First off, Brock had called him ‘TJ’ more times in the past few days than he had in the entire two years they’d been fucking. And secondly, he’d meant every single word. Brock _always_ meant what he said, _especially_ when he thought he’d come up with the ideas himself.

So TJ had dutifully slid up to Ezra and Charlie to say he ‘didn’t feel so good’ while enduring the sight of Steve and Bucky climbing all over each other on the dance floor (check). He’d ‘stumbled’ into Rhodes to bitch about the sugary cocktails after Steve and Bucky’d disappeared through a door next to the back bar (check). Then he’d pretended to slam shots in the middle of a big group of people he didn’t give a shit about, until the idiots had finally emerged without Bucky’s boots, but _with_ Rogers looking more than satisfied (check). And, last but not least, TJ’d put his arm around Pepper’s waist, given Sharon Carter his best pout, and had announced that he was gonna take off early (check).

After ticking off his boxes, he’d thought, ‘Brock will be so proud,’ and TJ hadn’t been able to stop himself from snickering.

Arranging the pieces. That’s what TJ did. Five moves ahead of everyone, even if he absolutely hated watching the knight slide into place.

TJ scratched at the skin beneath his black t-shirt. The hot/colds were starting already, and his jaw ached from clenching his teeth while he’d watched the shitshow unfolding. After they’d obviously fucked somewhere, Bucky’d started slamming shot after shot, weaving from place to place and person to person. He’d freaked out at his sister, flirted with Tony’s boyfriend, ran into a speaker (then had spent five minutes yelling at it), and, through it all, Steve Rogers, happy as could be in his leather pants and covered in The Starboy’s glitter, had been completely clueless. TJ _almost_ felt sorry for him...

But he needed to set everything else aside and get this shit done. Pushing his way towards the dark side of the tent in the middle of it all, TJ ducked his head as he wove his way towards the place he’d last spotted Steve. The clock was ticking. And there was only so much time left before TJ had to take a nice run through the shadows and blind spots to get back home and kiss Mommy hello to shore up his alibi. Then TJ would finally be able to crawl under a freshly washed sheet, shoot one-and-a-half packs, and sink back to a place where he was two years younger for the rest of the weekend.

After spotting Steve and Bucky under the tent, laughing, wasted, and squished together in the middle of their friends, TJ suddenly felt antsy, annoyed... _bothered._ He hadn’t expected to have second thoughts. Sure, he’d done the shit with the computer and coffee story (sloppy on purpose), and he’d sent Bucky the unicorn pajamas, tossing out another half-assed breadcrumb just because he knew Steve would never catch it (sloppy just for fun), but, at the root, TJ wanted this too much for second thoughts. Even after The Lunatic had thrown a wrench in things by bashing the holy hell out of TJ’s skull. Even after the worst version of Bucky had casually told TJ that he was worth nothing. And even after TJ’s newfound love of smack had started making it harder to keep all the pieces in play. If the reality of Brock running all over the city, checking off his sadistic boxes and paying cash for gloves, bleach, ropes, handcuffs, food, water, drugs, and more drugs, hadn’t made TJ think twice, then why the hell was seeing Bucky sandwiched between Steve’s legs making him feel...reluctant? For fuck’s sake, when Brock had used his table saw to build a false bottom for the drawer in the bedroom, then had hiden a loaded gun inside (all by himself), TJ’d barely blinked! Because, even knowing where all this might end, how badly things could go wrong, TJ _still_ wanted to hear Bucky Barnes say ‘I love you’, even if he had to give him an extra push.

Sweat was building underneath his mask, and his t-shirt was already damp; the reality of sobriety casting judgement. For the first time since Homecoming, TJ _really_ considered cutting the strings.

But then, Steve Rogers did something really stupid.

He left Bucky alone.

They’d been laughing about Tony’s costume, fucking around with some kid who looked like he was fucking fifteen, and Bucky’s face had started flipping from The Starboy to the freak with the shaky hands to Bucky and back around again. Steve hadn’t noticed. Why would he? Tony was an excellent distraction: acting as provider, cheerleader, and resident enabler. TJ’d almost walked away. Called the whole thing off. Stepped back into the shadows to find another way. But then Steve had stood up, sloppily kissed Bucky’s cheek, and had stumbled towards the DJ booth at the far end of the ballroom...

Now, if TJ’s demons had taught him anything, it was that temptation was easier to resist when there were obstacles in your way. Things like state-of-the-art security cameras, service entrances to multi-million dollar mansions with active alarms, friends who weren’t too busy mucking around in their own shit to pay attention, or loving boyfriends who didn’t leave you incapacitated in the middle of a crowded party with dangerous people like _Brock Rumlow_ on the loose…

So far, everything had been so easy that it was almost comical. Tony’s over-the-top Halloween balloons had taken care of their biggest obstacle: the security camera problem. Eliminating all sorts of logistical nightmares. And when TJ’d snuck through the kitchen, down the service hallway to open the loading dock door for Brock, the only sound had been the distracted caterers running around with with trays full of weird Halloween finger food and the annoying repetition of the ‘music’. And those attentive friends? They were all having too much fun watching Tony making a fool out of himself on roller skates to notice when Bucky wandered off towards the maze.

Squeezing his hand across his mouth, TJ pushed his fingers against the ridges of his teeth and waited. Adrenaline surging. Endorphins evening out his temperature. The devilish feeling in his stomach taking over.

TJ never could walk away from temptation.

Checking to make sure the cameras were still covered, TJ pushed his mask on top of his head, squeezed his hands around the base of his skull, and took a deep breath. Taking a page from Frank the Bunny, he muttered, “28 days...6 hours...42 minutes...12 seconds,” before making his move.

Luckily, when TJ turned a corner in the very back of the maze, Bucky was leaning against the hay, running the tip of one of his red feathers back and forth across his slightly parted lips. And TJ smiled, because The Starboy never required explanations.    

“If you put your mask on, baby, I’ll take mine _off,_ ” he drawled, tracing the line of his cock beneath his sequined jumpsuit. And TJ did as he was told, because The Starboy’s glitter was like poppies on a long and winding road.

Riding his shimmering thigh. Letting The Starboy stick his entire hand down the back of his jeans. Rolling his ass back onto his finger. Feeling The Starboy’s makeup smearing all over TJ’s cheeks, neck, mouth...he didn’t want to stop...

TJ was about to come in his jeans, when he heard, “I shouldn’t be here.”

It was Bucky...but the hand didn’t let go of his ass.

Rolling his hips even harder against his thigh, TJ whispered, “Neither of us should.” He just needed a few more seconds, his balls were already tightening...

Suddenly, Bucky slid his finger out and stumbled backwards, hitting the hay bales hard enough to make them rock. But TJ was _so fucking close,_ and Bucky was panting, licking his lips...unsteady. TJ couldn’t let it end like this. He couldn’t let it end at all. Taking a risk, he crowded back into Bucky’s space and ran his fingers through the smeared makeup on his cheeks before softly kissing his lips.

At first, there was nothing. Just sharp breaths sucked in and out, each one filled with hesitation. But then Bucky pressed his nose against TJ’s neck and whispered, “I didn’t choose this,” and TJ knew he had him.

“Neither did I,” TJ murmured, knowing damn well that nothing could be further from the truth. Opening Bucky’s mouth with his tongue, TJ placed the smacky E on Bucky’s tongue, then slipped the sugar pill onto his own.

After that, TJ wasn’t sure who turned him around and fucked him hard and fast against the hay bales, and he didn’t care. What he _did_ care about was that the many personalities of Bucky Barnes had wandered back to his boyfriend right on cue… after TJ’d come all over Stark’s maze. Check, check, and fucking check.

While he waited for the E to kick in, TJ had to nail the most important part of the evening. He used the inside of his t-shirt to wipe The Starboy’s makeup off his face, then scaled the hay bales so he wouldn’t be seen exiting the maze. Ducking into the crowd, he made his way toward the back bar before he ‘accidentally’ bashed into a few people, pushed up his mask to apologize, and then made sure the cameras in the foyer caught him heading out the door. TJ took a leisurely stroll down the block, acting queasy when he passed the ATM on the corner then wobbling past the traffic cam on the next block. Slow going for a boy just trying to make his way back home. Then he ducked into the alley and doubled back.

The whole thing had taken about half-an-hour by the time Brock had opened the back door, and damn, if it hadn’t been perfect timing.

The whole party was beyond fucked up. _Every_ person looked completely wasted, and, once again, TJ gave thanks to Tony Stark. Free unlimited booze, a fuck load of drugs, college kids corrupting the high school variety, and the ability to hide debauchery with cheap costumes and grease paint? It was the perfect storm, or, as Blue might say, a Sharknado. Brock had gone off-plan again; Stark’s balloons giving him an opportunity to stand in the shadows in the back corner of the tent, watching the spectacle...watching _Steve._

Bucky was practically fucking Steve in front of everyone while he destroyed embroidered pillows and threw feathers everywhere. TJ chewed at the skin inside his cheeks, because at that moment, it felt like he was doing Bucky a favor. At least TJ saw Bucky for who he really was.

What came next wasn’t hard. The hard part had been hugging the walls of the fucking alleys, trying to remember where all the cameras were in the fucking dark while the itch had gotten even stronger. So it was a relief when the moment presented itself all too easily. Steve rolled Bucky to the side, dropping him onto a pile of chewed up limes, and stumbled up to his feet, yelling, “Gotta pee. Be right back, sweetheart,” before weaving his way towards the main doors.

Then, like Steve’s absence had flipped the switch, Bucky got up and stumbled towards the spot where Brock had been standing. “I fucking see you!” he screamed at nothing. Brock wasn’t there anymore, and TJ hadn’t seen him leave. “I can fuckin’ smell you, you blueberry fucker Pop Tart. Like a goddamn bloodhound, I’m on yer trail. You just wait...Im’a smash you under my Bowie boot if I fuckin’ knew where I…” Bucky swiveled his head around, like the E had mixed up all the people inside his head, and TJ knew that this was it: his Mississippi crossroad. And just like Robert Johnson had traded his soul to become the King of the Delta Blues, TJ willingly signed his name.

Sliding up behind Bucky from the shadows, TJ pushed the feathers out of the way and wrapped his gloved hands around his waist. He was praying that the E would help him trigger Red.

“Hey there, _sweetheart,”_ TJ murmured, because it was something that Steve Rogers would say. “Lemme help you.”

“Oh, Stevie Stevie Scooby Doo, why’re you sooo good to me?” he slurred, letting TJ steer him through the crowd. “Don’t you know I’m a million different peoples from one day to the next…” Red started singing, loudly, but TJ was hidden behind the sparkling sequins and long red feathers. If anyone looked, The Starboy was all they’d see.

Keeping him on track, TJ answered, “Because I love you, sweetheart.”

“Aww, shucks, honey bunny...I love you too, and so do my monsters...I think...” Red snorted, and TJ had to use his full weight to shove him through the door to the kitchen when there was a gap in the constant flow of waiters and waitresses carrying trays of Stark’s unintentional weaponry. Making a hard left, TJ pushed Bucky out of sight; and when his shoulders hit the wall, Red laughed, pure and good.

In the light, it was clear that the E had hit him full on.

“I wish you were saying that to me,” TJ grumbled, peeking around the corner to make sure no one else was coming. He had to get him around one more corner, down the back hall to the door. That was it. He was almost done. He could feel the needle already.

“We’re gonna get married an’ have allll the babies…” Red wobbled as TJ herded him forward. “Mmm, but first you gotta make sweet sweet love to me…” All of the sudden, Red spun around, grabbed TJ by the collar and practically moaned, “God, you’re a sexy motherfucker.”

“What the fuck are you doing?” Brock charged up behind him and yanked Red’s arm, dragging him backwards and turning the wrong fucking way down the hallway!

“Hey,” TJ hissed, jogging after them, because this wasn’t part of the plan! And neither was the heavy wooden door that Brock was pulling open with his gloved hand.

“Keep watch. This shit is so fuckin’ easy. I wanna bust a nut in his ass right under Rogers’ nose.”

“Brock, that’s a bad idea…”

But before he could finish his sentence, Brock twisted Bucky’s arm backwards and shoved him full force through the opening. And Jesus, TJ couldn’t see the stairs, but he sure as hell heard Bucky thudding off every single one...and he hated it.

“Twenty minutes. That’s all I need.”

It had taken TJ an hour to get Brock off before the party, and that had been _with_ Brock calling him ‘Steve’ and keeping his beady eyes squeezed shut the whole fucking time.

Lunging forward as Brock walked through the door, TJ caught sight of Bucky lying on the stone floor. His arm was twisted at a funny angle at the shoulder. He wasn’t moving. It was a wine cellar. TJ liked wine...just like Mommy. He needed a glass now. A bottle. A sip. Anything to block the sound of the hinges squeaking shut.

It only took ten...

When the door opened, Bucky was unconscious. When Brock said they had to wrap something around Bucky’s ‘leaking ass’, TJ _had_ to tie Brock’s bomber jacket around him. When Brock wasn’t strong enough to carry Bucky up the stairs by himself, TJ _had_ to grab his bare feet. When Brock hefted Bucky’s dead weight by his dislocated arm, TJ _had_ to look at the way The Starboy’s sequined jumpsuit had been ripped down the seams, blood splattered across the sparkles. When Brock hissed, “Hurry the fuck up, TJ”, as they maneuvered through the back door, TJ _had_ to look at the gaping cut on Scotty’s forehead, _had_ to notice the way Blue’s beautiful blue eyes were rolling back in their sockets. And when they threw Bucky onto the plastic sheet in the back of the SUV that Brock had borrowed from one of his dad’s cronies, TJ _had_ to admit that he’d lost control.

All of the sudden, it felt like the blinding flash from Jack Rollins’ camera had lit up the dark alley, making a magical boy named Blue back away from TJ to shield his eyes.

Brock jammed a bucket against TJ’s chest then slammed the hatch. “Clean it up. Wipe _everything._ There’s fuckin’ sequins and feathers everywhere. Don’t miss a single one. And don’t forget to get rid of this.” Brock shoved Bucky’s phone into his other hand. “Little fucker had it shoved down his goddamn underwear. Remember, pull the sim and battery, and ditch ‘em separately over the next couple days, just like we talked about. And make sure that bucket ends up in the river. If you don’t, I’ll dust off that picture of your first boyfriend sucking your dick and send it to your daddy. I’m sure he’s got a nice reform school in Texas all picked out for ya.”

Looking into the bucket, the bottom filled with water and sponges...three hand towels hanging over the side...TJ felt dizzy. “Why’d you have this in the car?” His feet were frozen. The feeling in his stomach altogether new. “Why do you have this!?”

“Don’t fucking question me, or I’ll keep the room locked tight...won’t let you in at all...and you can curl up in the corner of the fuckin’ basement and die for all I care. Understand?”

“You planned on doing this all along…”

“Oh, honey, don’t pretend like it matters.” Brock laughed, turning his back. “You knew it was gonna happen. Just ‘cause I fucked Rogers’ precious boy toy a little ahead of schedule, don’t go gettin’ fuckin’ soft. Now, stop being a pussy and take care of it!”

Brock backed out of the alley, headlights off, steering the car within an inch of the wall to avoid the cameras, and TJ was left holding a phone that read, ‘I heart Steve’, and a bucket to clean up Brock’s mess... _his_ mess.

There was no fucking way that TJ was gonna let Brock Rumlow take this away from him again. No fucking way! And if it meant taking things further, then TJ was gonna take them fucking further...

This bucket wasn’t going _anywhere_ near the river. After he cleaned everything up, it was gonna get shoved way in the back of a closet for later use. He’d always planned on holding onto the phone, but he was gonna do one better. Popping off the case, TJ pulled the sim and the battery and shoved them in his pocket, snapping it back into place before he slid it across the concrete underneath the dumpster.

A breadcrumb dropped for a boy named Blue, before TJ climbed into the oven himself.

*

  


It had been almost a week, and Brock still hadn’t let TJ see Bucky. The asshole had sent a few Enigma level coded texts to one of TJ’s burner phones: ‘all _set_ on the _joint ’_ _,_ ‘café closed till further notice’, ‘send Cap update’, ‘Cap news?’, ‘fuckin’ answer me!’ But nothing otherwise.

So, TJ was just lying in his bed, listening to a deep cut of Prince singing ‘Mary don’t you weep’ with nothing but a piano trading runs, and waiting out an extreme version of ‘Don’t call me, I’ll call you’ with Brock. Yeah, he wanted to know what the fuck was going on, and it sucked to admit how much he missed the sound of Blue giggling while he planned their first date or the feeling of The Starboy’s fingers in his mouth, but it was fine. TJ needed to give Brock time to get the sheets nice and dirty anyway...

Tossing the phone under the dumpster had been stupid; a mistake TJ blamed on being too fucking sober. Too fucking sappy. Amateur shit. So, Brock throwing his weight around and acting like a tough guy was working in TJ’s favor. He’d been using the extra time to adjust. Altering his strategy. Rearranging the pieces to regain control. And if someone _had_ seen TJ double back, if the cameras had caught anything, or if they found the phone, it was better to keep his ass as far away from ground zero as possible.

Wake up. Get high. Go to school. Act sad. Go home. Get high. Be a good boy. Go to sleep. Repeat. If the cops showed up asking questions, he was just a kid who drank too many sugary drinks and left the party early so Mommy could feed him crackers and tuck him into bed. If the cops showed up with handcuffs, TJ could say it was all Brock’s plan. TJ was just following orders. He needed to get high. He was scared that Brock was gonna kill him if he didn’t do what he said…

In the meantime, TJ’d paid a visit to Lance, to shore up a few things. TJ’d asked him to go _extra_ hard so he could pick up a few hundred dollars, but, more importantly, to confirm that the code for the safe hadn’t been changed. It hadn’t.

TJ was high as a kite, drifting around in a low-ceilinged Speakeasy with smoke hanging in the air, when Brock’s text finally came. Stretching out his arm to figure out which phone had vibrated (his actual phone, Bucky’s very special burner phone, or Brock’s not-so-special burner phone), TJ squinted at the screen. The second he read the text, he knew something was wrong, and, suddenly, TJ was stone cold sober. It said, ‘café _now!_ bring a 6 pack’, and TJ knew damn well that he wasn’t talking about beer. If he was telling TJ to bring dope, then there had to be a _real_ fucking problem.

Luckily, he’d used Lance’s generous donation to score a bundle after school, so it was just a matter of getting to the café without being seen. Throwing on a dark grey sweatshirt and jeans, TJ packed up his kit and headed for the door. Plans are successful because somebody puts in the work, and, without a doubt, TJ’d been earning overtime.

In less than thirty minutes, he was standing in the café’s living room watching Brock flipping over furniture as blood dripped from the scratches down his back and _poured_ out of the huge bite on his shoulder. TJ couldn’t even call it a bite _mark_ because there was literally a chunk missing. Was it horrible that he hoped The Lunatic had swallowed it?

“You need to get that shit under control! Now!” Brock screamed, pointing at the stairs as he pointlessly tried to push the skin back together. “I don’t know what the fuck just happened, but you need to take your junkie ass upstairs and chill him the fuck out!”

“Don’t I need the key?”

“No!”

That made absolutely no sense. Brock had installed a deadbolt that opened with a key from both sides, but he stormed off into the kitchen before TJ could ask what the hell he was about to walk into. Adjusting his backpack, that familiar adrenaline pushing his buzz back up, TJ crept up the narrow stairs, listening. The room was at the back of the house at the far end of the hall, and TJ was shocked to see that the door was wide open. The only thing that looked out of the ordinary was Brock’s blood all over the damn place.

Itching his nose, TJ straightened his shoulders and played the first run of ‘Round Midnight’ on the wooden banister as he carefully avoided every single drop. The side of his head hurt, phantom pain from the last time TJ’d met The Lunatic, but the room was quiet...dead silent. Resetting his focus on the end game, TJ slowly walked towards the open door, letting the chords of the song...their song...play in his mind.

When he peeked his head around the doorframe, the room was dark. The only things he could make out in the shadows were the end of the bed, a sheet, a few empty water bottles, and Brock’s wadded up shirt on the wood floor.

“Why are you here?”

Buck’s voice had come out of the dark: calm, quiet, and direct. TJ swallowed, took a step backwards, because he didn’t know what to say to that. But then it hit him: if Brock hadn’t said anything, Bucky might not remember that TJ’d been involved...

He had to think fast. “Um, Brock...he called me...Oh, my god, Bucky, I didn’t know…”

“Didn’t know what?” Buck interrupted, stepping out of the shadows. He was naked, with blood smeared underneath his chin and running down into his chest hair, and his head was tipped: curious, disconcerting.

TJ had to think faster.

“I didn’t know Brock did this...are you...are you hurt?” Then, the real test. “Nobody knows where you are, Bucky! _Steve_ is so worried…”

“Don’t say that name,” he mumbled, walking into the little bathroom and turning on the water. No ropes, no handcuffs, no restraints of any kind that TJ could see. Splashing water on his face, Buck let it run down his body, the stained water dripping around his feet. “I don’t wanna think about him.”

Trying not to smile, TJ wondered if he’d be able to add the ‘y’ back to Bucky’s name sooner than expected. TJ had to bite the inside of his cheek to make his eyes water, because the thrill of playing the most complex game of his life was making him rock hard. “Why not? I can get you out of here, Bucky. I’ll call the cops right now...we can call Steve...”

“No.” Bucky cut him off (because it _was_ Bucky), using Brock’s shirt to wipe himself off. “I don’t know where I am or how the hell I got here. I don’t know what day it is, or what the fuck is happening. But I _do_ know this: when I opened my eyes, Brock Rumlow was balls deep in my ass and I was holding back my own goddamn knees! I’d say, whatever the fuck’s going on, I’m right where I belong.”

“But…”

“I don’t wanna talk about it! What I _want_ is for you to come over here with your bag of tricks and make it stop.” Bucky grimaced. “You do that, right?”

Ten packs of heroin tucked neatly in his bag. Honestly, things couldn’t be going better. Nervously tucking the stray hairs back behind his ears, TJ played dumb (well, just dumb enough). “What? I…”

“Since I took a chunk out of Brock, I’ve been thinking…” Bucky stepped towards the door. “...and I think I’ve remembered a few things about you.”

Until this very second, TJ hadn’t realized that he’d never seen Bucky naked. Pieces of him, yes, but never like this. And he looked...scary. Every piece of his body was put together perfectly like a machine: the veins in his arms and his neck popping and his muscles vibrating with the tension. Breathing heavily through his nostrils. His hair tangled and knotted. Brock’s blood still clinging to his skin. TJ took a step backwards, because he’d been wrong. This was bad…

“For example, _Thomas…”_ Bucky hissed, crowding TJ back against the banister and poking the center of his chest. _“Maxwell…”_ He poked it again, harder. _“Campbell...”_ Bucky bared his bloody teeth.

TJ was dead. Bucky Barnes was gonna rip his head off, spit into the hole, then stomp downstairs and finish eating Brock for dessert.

“When I look at you, I know that there’s a pattern of freckles on your chest that I’ve traced with my tongue.” He popped the buttons on his shirt, one, two, three, and yanked it open, touching each little brown spot as he glared into TJ’s eyes. “And I already know that when I rub my nose against your neck, like this…” Bucky did just that, but there was nothing sweet about it. “...that your skin smells like apples.”

“Bucky, I…”

“Shut up!” he yelled, loud enough that TJ’s ear started ringing. “I’m not finished.” Taking a step backwards, Bucky dropped his arms by his sides, closed his eyes, and worked his jaw. For once, TJ didn’t know what the fuck he was supposed to do.

It took a minute for something to happen; TJ’s heart pounding in his throat as he waited. Waited to get thrown over the railing. Waited to feel a hand on his dick. Waited to touch the ivory keys. Waited to have his jaw broken.

Finally, Bucky blew out a long breath. “But, worst of all,” he started, his eyes filling with tears, “I remember that Steve Rogers gave me nothing but love and the promise of a magnificent future, and, in return, I got wasted and fucked _you_ on our roof.”

TJ didn’t have to bite his tongue to make himself cry as they stared into one another’s eyes, two people looking at each other for who they really were for the first time in two years.

Without pretense, TJ asked, “What did you do to Brock?”

“Remembered who I was before I figured out he was giving me exactly what I deserved.”

The Crossroad Demon was keeping her promise.

As the tension settled into something quiet and heavy, TJ took a closer look at Bucky in the light, and what he saw shocked him.

“Your shoulder.” TJ reached out to touch the bruised skin without thinking, but Bucky didn’t stop him. Running the tips over the joint, it was red and swollen, hot to the touch. “And your face…what happened?”

“I don’t know.”

The cut on his forehead from falling down the steps had been stitched together, badly. It was infected and oozing. And, yeah, Brock said that he’d reset Bucky’s shoulder, but something was wrong. But it was the cuts on Bucky’s left arm that turned TJ’s stomach. They wrapped all the way around his wrist in parallel lines, like scabby stripes stacked one on top of the other. “Your arm…” TJ whispered, ghosting his fingers over Bucky’s knuckles.

“I think I get one of those a day; and if I sit really still, Brock does a good job of making them straight.”

“Bucky…”

“What’s in your bag, TJ?”

He swallowed, because, suddenly, he wasn’t sure he wanted to unzip it.

“Tell me what’s in your bag,” Bucky repeated, his voice low as he pulled his hand away.

Instantly missing the contact, TJ blurted out, “Heroin,” before he could stop himself.

Bucky’s face collapsed for a second, shifting through a hundred different expressions, and TJ waited...and waited. Without a choice, TJ spun the roulette wheel and bet on blue, taking the gamble that if the ball landed in the wrong slot, TJ might get his skull smashed against the ground until he stopped breathing...

Waiting as the ball rolled slower and slower…

Backing away, the darkness of the room enveloped Bucky as he sunk to the ground and leaned against the bed. He didn’t make any effort to cover himself up. “Have I done that before?”

TJ told him the truth. “No.”

“How long have I been here?”

“You’ve been missing for six days, Bucky.”

“Is my sister okay? My dad?”

TJ spit out a lie that he actually felt bad about. “They’re holding up okay.”

“Clint?”

“He’s quiet. He broke Steve’s nose.”

For a second, TJ thought he’d fucked up by saying Steve’s name again, but Bucky just tipped his head back and stared at the ceiling. “You sent me the unicorn, didn’t you?” he asked. “Put the note inside the sleeve about making me feel safe?”

TJ nodded, because the unicorn might have been a ‘fuck you’ to Steve, but the note...TJ’d sent the note just for Bucky, because he’d meant it. His throat tightened and his eyes watered up again...because until right now, he hadn’t realized how much.

“I think it worked when I put it on...made me feel safer, made me forget I’m crazy.” Bucky stretched out his arm, the lines marking every day that TJ’d made him suffer. “Can you do that for me again, TJ?” A tear slipped down his cheek. “Please...”

TJ carefully squatted down, crawling towards him, nervous, like he’d never been this close to Bucky before. Then he caught himself, realizing as he unzipped his bag that he _hadn’t._ Pulling everything out as Bucky watched, he set the water bottle next to his favorite red belt, daring Bucky to notice that he’d stolen it out of Steve’s gym locker, curious to see if he’d say anything if he did. Watching his face carefully, TJ set two new needles next to the burnt spoon. His adrenaline was already spiking, his stomach turning in anticipation. Brock was still making noise downstairs, slamming things around, but TJ tuned him out. He only cared about what was about to happen.

“How many times have I fucked you?”

The question was sudden, matter of fact, and TJ tried to control his emotions as he got everything ready. He had to remember, no matter how calm Bucky seemed, that he’d literally just taken a bite out of Brock’s shoulder. If he answered wrong, he could be next.

He stalled for a minute, cooking the dope, filling the needles, but then he took the risk. All in. Leaning over, TJ  wrapped the belt around Bucky’s left arm (it was already a mess, so…), then he slowly, cautiously, kissed his cheek and whispered, “A few times.”

“How many?” There was a hint of anger, and the tendons in his neck tightened, but TJ held his ground.

If he lied and Bucky actually remembered...if this was a test...then game over. The only option was the truth. Pulling back a little, TJ answered, “Nine. We’ve had sex nine times.”

The tears kept falling as Bucky closed his eyes, squeezing them shut as he whispered, “Does Steve know?”

Shaking his head, TJ tried to smooth down Bucky’s hair, pushing the knotted strands behind his ear. “No. He doesn’t.”

“Can you keep it that way?”

Doing things he shouldn’t. That’s what TJ did. And when temptation was laid at his feet like a gift, he was powerless to say anything except, “Yes.”

Bucky paused for a minute, rolling his eyes towards the ceiling and clenching his jaw, before tugging the end of the belt himself and stretching out his arm.

It was the last time that TJ spoke to Bucky Barnes.

*

  


The bedroom was too small to be as high up in the clouds as TJ was, especially with all the shit Yakov kept tossing all over the floor. Empty beer bottles, dirty underwear, used Kleenex, a virtual snowstorm of lottery tickets, and needles; he had a habit of throwing them at the plywood window after he shot up. TJ had a hard time keeping up with the mess.

But the high was fucking phenomenal, and the music was loud..sexy...dirty. The Delta Blues stretching across Jimmy Page’s guitar like he’d stood in the center of those crossroads too, listening to the howling Hellhound and signing on the dotted line. There was nothing better than Robert Plant shaking his hair, his hips, his _everything_ to Led Zeppelin’s ‘Traveling Roadside Blues’. TJ pulled off his white t-shirt and used it to wipe the sweat off his neck as he strutted around the end of the bed with a rolled up hundred dollar bill hanging out of his mouth. It was Saturday night...somewhere around six. He wasn’t sure because there wasn’t a clock in here. Yakov didn’t give a fuck what time it was; and when TJ was with Yakov, he didn’t give a fuck either. He’d been at the café most of the day, celebrating the successful conclusion of Lance’s long-con with a mountain of coke, because TJ needed to savor his victories, especially after dealing with Steve Rogers the last few days. That asshole was really starting to lose his shit, which Brock fucking _loved_ (and, to be honest, TJ did too), but, damn, Rogers knew how to kill a buzz.

Showing up at TJ’s house Wednesday after school? Freaking out at the fucking Secret Service? TJ’d watched that shit from the dining room window, along with Mommy, her glass of Sauvignon blanc, and her Happy Hour valium. Steve squaring up with Daddy’s men in black? TJ’d been wildly annoyed _and_ wildly impressed. On the annoyed side of things: After Mommy had dozed off on the couch, he’d had to make five extra moves to get to Yakov, just in case Rogers was still hangin’ around with his rapidly developing ball sack. Luckily, Daddy had his very own _secret_ entrance so the Secret Service could get him in and out without the news crews descending or the protestors attacking (extreme right wing voting tendencies, especially when he’d sold himself as a centrist before the election, tended to bring out the angry mobs). It let Daddy avoid the tomatoes, and it let TJ avoid Steve Rogers...and Frank...and Natasha...and the rest of the players on the board. Daddy’s exit also included a garage that looked like it belonged to the house two doors down, which housed a very sexy, nondescript, black Chevy Malibu. And wouldn’t ya know? TJ knew exactly where Mommy kept her key. When he’d pulled out on Wednesday, TJ hadn’t been able to stop looking in the rearview; paranoid, and maybe a little bit turned on.

Shaking his head to the beat, TJ pulled his Calculus book closer to the edge of the bed and blasted another huge rail. Which, holy fuck… It took a minute before he could feel his face again, and this song needed to be louder. Now. One good thing about the sound-proofing TJ had Brock stick behind the plywood was he could blast the little speakers he’d brought up without having the neighbors calling the cops. He cranked the volume and rocked back on his heels. Led Zeppelin always made TJ’s highs higher...his lows lower...and everything that happened in between so much _more._

When Steve had him cornered in the stairwell on Thursday, TJ’d put on the performance of a lifetime (even smacked out): ‘Please, don’t hurt me. I’m so weak and vulnerable. I’m just a mindless drug addict.’ It always worked like a charm on Brock and, with a little extra effort, had been mostly effective on Steve too. But Rogers was changing, catching on enough to call TJ a liar, getting frustrated enough to slap him across the face (which had hurt like a mother fucker), and being suspicious enough to tail TJ’s ass like a badass. After dealing with Brock, it was satisfying to have a worthy opponent on the field. When big, mean Steve had pushed, TJ’d pushed right back; testing the waters by tossing out a few more breadcrumbs just to see where he stood. Turning his head so Steve could see The Lunatic’s recent handiwork on his temple. Stripping off his sweater so he could show off The Lunatic’s fingerprints wrapped around his arm, with a big-ol-track mark right in the middle, blue as blue could be. But Steve was still too blinded by anger and rage to catch it.

But he was getting there.

TJ was quickly learning that pawns were much more fun to play with when they weren’t complete idiots; and Frank, Natasha, and Rogers had been upping their game, making things interesting, and giving TJ a real fucking challenge. When they’d followed him to Chinatown yesterday? Damn, that had been a real pain in TJ’s ass. He’d almost left without scoring, but Yakov had turned out to be just as greedy as TJ when it came to his drugs, so TJ’d let them see that he’d become a full-on junkie. In the long run, it would work in his favor if he spun it just right...which he would. He’d swung by a coffee house, tied off in the bathroom, then had put himself on display in the window, taking his sweet ass time drinking two cups of coffee while they did a shit job hiding outside. That night, he’d stayed home, shared a delightful meal of steak and fingerling potatoes with Mommy, and had waited for her to make a trip to the kitchen to refill her wine glass before stealing ten Valiums out of her purse. Sometime after midnight, he’d cooked two packs on top of his grand piano, shot them both, then had nodded off with his face smashed against the dusty keys.  

Pressing his palms together, TJ scratched his scalp, then his neck, then his chest; his nails digging into his skin as his heart pitter pattered in the most wonderful way. The bass line, the smell of sweat and sex, and the slowly pulsing lights, damn, it was all perfect. He’d gotten ambitious a few days back, slipping on a pair of latex gloves and standing on the bed to staple three rows of Christmas lights back and forth across the ceiling with Brock’s heavy duty staple gun (check). Not even mid-November and they’d already been on display when he’d stopped to get a pack of gum and a pack of needles at Walgreens; front and center next to the candy canes.

According to the one and only Brock Rumlow, TJ was supposed to be at home with the curtains pulled wide, putting on a show for the inevitable detectives, private eyes, or maybe even Steven Grant Rogers himself. But Mommy and Daddy were both home for the weekend: Mommy doting on him, scritching the hair above his ears, asking, ‘Why are you falling asleep at the table, darling? Are you stressed at school? Should I set up a massage to release the build up of toxins?’ Sure, Mommy, pay someone to rub the dope out of my skin. That would be a pretty cool trick.

He couldn’t handle it there. Not even a little bit. So he’d come back to the Christmas lights, where everything was fuzzy around the edges. It was the perfect mood lighting for all the things that happened in the room that TJ’d used the sadist to create.

Sniffing hard and licking his tongue across his teeth, TJ ran his index finger down the center of his sweaty chest, wet like a humid night on the Mississippi, and connected the dots between Blue’s favorite freckles as the lump stirred on the bed. The guitar riff sounded like a French Quarter bar at 3am, the uneven planks on the floor littered with cigarette butts, crushed plastic cups, puddles of beer, and needles needles needles. TJ wanted to roll around in it. Grinding his ass back against the wall (fuck, he’d have to wipe that down later), the lyrics ‘squeeze my lemon till the juice runs down my leg, squeeze it so hard I fall right out of bed,’ made TJ’s dick get even harder than it already was. Swear to God, he was willing to shell out the rest of his cash to a New Orleans’ lemonade stand if the lump on the bed was the one doing the squeezing. On cue, the sheet was flung to the side and he stretched out his naked body below the Christmas haze, and TJ’d mouth watered in anticipation...waiting to see who he was gonna get.

Their first night together in the café, after TJ had blasted the dope into Bucky’s vein, he’d slid sideways onto the floor and had mumbled, ‘Oh my god,’ as he’d melted like hot butter. It was a response TJ knew intimately. TJ’d sat there for a while, playing with Bucky’s hair and thinking about the possibilities, the future, before he’d gone downstairs to ask the cannibalism victim to fill in the blanks.

Brock had told him the whole story, beginning to end, while TJ’d washed the eight deep scratches running from Brock’s shoulder blades all the way down to his ass and had tried his best to clean out the bite.

Apparently, when Bucky Barnes had woken up handcuffed to the bed the day after the party, he hadn’t responded to ‘Bucky’, ‘Bucky Barnes’, ‘Faggot’, ‘Bitch’, or any of Brock’s other lovely names. For the entire first week, Brock said he’d just followed orders, taking everything that Brock had dished out without a word, except for a few mumbled sentences in fucking _Russian._ He’d stopped holding the gun to Bucky’s head on the second day, had gotten rid of one set of handcuffs on the third, the second on the fourth, and had stopped locking the deadbolt behind himself when he’d gone into the room on the fifth.

Brock had been too busy ranting to go into the specifics, and, to be honest, TJ hadn’t wanted to know. But then, according to the story, Brock had made the critical mistake of saying Steve’s name when he was fucking ‘that insane whore’, and Bucky Barnes had shown up kicking, screaming, and biting.

Maybe TJ should’ve warned him about that...

After he’d finished packing the gaping hole with gauze, letting Brock bitch for what had felt like hours, TJ had finally gone back upstairs. And Bucky hadn’t moved. Not an inch. That had been a moment of pure terror, thinking that he’d killed Bucky on their first fucking night together! Frantically dropping to his knees, TJ’d shoved him onto his back and had searched his neck for a pulse. But the second TJ’s fingers had made contact, Bucky’d mumbled ‘Yakov’ in a deep Russian accent...

TJ’d quickly grown to love his new name.

“That music’s too loud,” the lump grumbled, the accent heavy.

Smiling automatically, TJ rubbed at the end of his nose and said, “Lemme give you a line. You’ll change your mind.”

“No.”

Yakov was a man of few words. It turned TJ on.

Pushing himself out of bed, Yakov shook his hair into his face and scratched his ass, taking his time flipping on the lamp. “That’s not what I want.”

TJ winced when the light hit his face, his enormous pupils _pissed_ as Yakov yanked a pair of black boxers over his ass. It was hard not to notice that the shadow of Bucky had gotten thinner. TJ wasn’t feeding him enough. Or he wasn’t hungry. Or he was sleeping too much. Or _fucking_ too much. Or _getting_ fucked too much. Dragging his hand over his mouth, TJ watched Yakov pick up the other rolled hundred dollar bill, tapping it a few times next to the sloppy lines TJ’d sculpted for him on the nightstand. Six taps before he set it back down.

Grinding his teeth, TJ’s eyes flicked to the coke. “If you’re not gonna do that, I am.”

“Don’t fucking move,” Yakov growled, poking at the infected cut running across his forehead. No matter how many times TJ poured peroxide over the jagged edges, it just wasn’t healing. Brock had done a shit job stitching it up in the first place. Bastard.

Yakov glared at him, thick stubble covering his jaw, and TJ was having a hard time focusing. He hadn’t done this much coke in weeks, and it was hitting him extra hard. But, c’mon, pocketing nine grand _and_ a quarter of coke from Lance’s safe deserved more than one kind of celebration...

Popping the top button on his jeans, TJ dragged his hand over his chest, directing the sweat to roll past his belly button before catching Yakov’s eye; sucking him in like a snake charmer. Or maybe it was the other way around? TJ couldn’t tell anymore.

“I said, don’t fucking move!”

Yeah, that was the ticket. The accent, damn. TJ moaned as his heart rate picked up even more.

Yakov slid past TJ into the bathroom to take a piss. Not even holding his dick to aim. Rolling his good shoulder in a slow circle. Not bothering to flush.

Then, and only then, did Yakov give TJ his full attention. Stepping in front of him, Yakov made a show of dragging his nails across the rows of red cuts wrapping around his forearm. Brock was up to fourteen so far: his idea of a trophy: or as TJ like to think of them, a sadistic ‘fuck you’ to the cuffs Steve had snapped around Bucky’s wrist in his epic display of teenage devotion. Yakov itched at the stripes that were healing by the wrist, pulling a piece of scab off the one Brock had carved a couple hours ago as he purposefully pressed his dick against TJ’s hip. The down and dirty blues. Yakov’s hardening cock. The blood. It was more addictive than chasing the purest dragon.

Adding the smallest hint of pressure, Yakov muttered, “I want to go out.”

TJ choked on a laugh, because that was _not_ gonna happen. Suddenly, fingers wrapped around his bicep, right on top of the bruises he’d gotten the last time someone beyond the Russian had emerged. Remnants of The Lunatic. Blue fingerprints that Steve Rogers never would have recognized in a million years, no matter how clearly TJ’d hinted that the love of Steve’s life liked to deal it out. Yakov squeezed so hard that the pain buckled TJ’s knees.

“I’m going out, and you are coming with me.”

“Brock is _not_ gonna…”

“You are going to text Brock and get him here, play your games, make him do whatever I want, whatever _you_ want, and we _are_ going out.” The fingers squeezed tighter, and the pain crossed past the sweet spot that TJ loved so much into the uncontrolled feeling that things were about to go too far. The song switched. It was a string version of ‘Summertime Rolls’ by Jane’s Addiction, and Yakov’s head ticked to the left.

All of the sudden, his right hand snapped up and wrapped around the back of TJ’s neck, tipping his head to the side in its grip. Supporting his buckling knees, Yakov leaned in to hiss, “Wear blue.”

“What?” TJ gasped.

“I like it when you wear blue.” His voice shifted, the accent suddenly gone. “Navy. Like your pea coat.”

Flicking his eyes up to meet his, TJ bathed in the softness of Blue for as long as he could. Who knew how long he’d stay? The sweetness of his smile making TJ feel pretty, if only for a second.

“I like how it makes your skin look.” Blue leaned forward, the innocence of the motion in direct contrast to the fact that Yakov, or The Lunatic, or some wild combination of both was still about to snap his arm.

TJ let Blue rub their noses together with the innocence of eskimo kisses, then, when the sweetness inevitably went away, let Yakov spin him around and roughly fuck him against the wall, because, truth be told, TJ liked it both ways.

*

  
                   

 

This was insane. TJ couldn’t believe that Brock had gone along with going out (let alone to a _club)_ , or the things Yakov had done to convince him. It had crossed lines that TJ’d never even considered. But he’d gotten to feel Yakov moving inside of him again, even if Brock had been in the room...even if Brock had been the one moving him...

Yakov was in line to get in about eight people up, dressed in one of the plain outfits and the wool coat TJ’d bought him; nothing memorable or distinctive. And he still hadn’t shaved. First, because Brock hadn’t wanted to risk giving him a razor; then, because Yakov didn’t want to. For his age, Bucky’s stubble was surprisingly thick, helping to hide the kind of jawline that turned far too many heads. That, plus the accent, and the fake ID Brock had ‘borrowed’ from some low-level dealer with a similar jaw and long brown hair, and the hundred dollar bill Brock had handed over in addition to the thirty dollar cover...well, TJ was surprisingly confident that they were gonna be just fine. They might even have a good time.

The plan was for Yakov to go in first. That way, if he _was_ spotted, Brock and TJ would have time to run. Of course, TJ’d left out the part where he’d book it straight to the police station and point the finger at Brock, executing the final move ahead of time if necessary. Sure, there was a ton of shit at the café that would incriminate TJ if he pulled the trigger early, but nothing he couldn’t minimize by playing victim...nothing that would make a district attorney charge him as an adult.

But TJ didn’t wanna have to go there. Not yet. Not before Yakov said the words...not before he was absolutely sure that he could get Bucky Barnes to say them soon after.

About ten people behind TJ, Brock was wearing a denim jacket with a black newsboy hat pulled low, keeping his head down and pretending to look at his phone. He was trying to blend in, but, obviously, he hadn’t gotten the memo about the kind of club that Yakov had bartered for. Making sure the sleeves of his tight navy blue henley were pulled down all the way, TJ snickered, patting the round outline of Shen Shen’s off-the-chart-pure E that he’d shoved deep inside the pocket of his black jeans. Yeah, it was insane letting Yakov out, especially letting him go into the club ahead of them, but they were _all_ sick of being in that room. And, crazy or not, neither of them believed that Yakov was gonna take off. If he’d wanted to, he would’ve left after taking that piece out of Brock.

TJ’s heart rate picked-up when Yakov disappeared past the velvet rope, then doubled when Yakov’s voice floated through the door. He was growling at someone in Russian, his accent thicker than usual, and, yep, they were truly and royally fucked. When TJ glanced back at Brock, he was already shoving his phone in his pocket, scowling, and looking for an escape route. Dammit.

But nothing happened. The line moved forward, and TJ was let in easily (his ID nothing short of perfection), and then Brock followed without so much as a second glance. The club was packed, and TJ kept his distance from Brock until they’d gotten closer to the main bar where it was darker, where they’d get lost in the crowd. TJ’d been here with Lance on a fetish night. He’d acted like a dog. It wasn’t worth remembering.

As soon as TJ got within three feet of Brock, he picked up his unease. Obviously, this wasn’t his scene. He’d never stepped foot in a gay bar because he ‘wasn’t a fucking queer’. The poor ‘straight boy’ was sucking in his cheeks, glaring at everyone, and TJ found himself standing tall, towering several inches over Brock’s head and looking down on him in more ways than one.

“Where’d he fuckin’ go?” Turning in a slow circle, Brock stood on his tiptoes to try to see over the crowd. It made TJ laugh.

“He’s at the bar. Looks like he’s buying us drinks.”

“You’ve gotta be kidding me.” Brock sounded shocked. “With what money?”

“I dunno,” TJ answered, knowing damn well that he’d slipped three of Lance’s hundred dollar bills into Yakov’s pocket with a wink before they’d left the café. “C’mon, this is supposed to be fun.”

Brock just stood there, his confidence shrinking to match his height. “This wasn’t supposed to be fun!” he snapped, shoving a pretty boy with caramel skin and dreadlocks who’d accidentally bumped into him. “This was supposed to be…”

“Hey!”

A _very_ big man with _very_ big muscles, wearing a _very_ tight t-shirt, shoved Brock backwards.

“You just pushed my boyfriend!”

“You gotta problem with me?” Brock snarled as several more _very_ big and, if TJ said so himself, _very_ hot men circled him. TJ happily stepped backwards as Brock yelled, “‘Cause I gotta problem with your bitch not watchin’ her step.”

Glancing across the crowd at Yakov leaning over the bar and whispering in the bartender’s ear, TJ wanted nothing more than a night out with a gorgeous Russian, _minus_ Brock Rumlow.

“Baby,” TJ drawled, “Maybe you should call it a night. Your homophobic asshole is showing.”

“You fucking cock sucker!” Brock lunged for TJ’s arm, but the muscle boys held him back; biceps flexing in tank tops...veins bulging...god, it was beautiful. “Go fetch that crazy whore right fuckin’ now, or I’ll...”

“You’ll what?” TJ interrupted, smiling as Yakov pushed through the crowd holding only two drinks. “Stick a gun up my ass again?”

“Oh, you’re fuckin’ dead!”

The tallest guy stepped right in front of TJ, shoving Brock like a real hero. “Hey! Back off!”

The last thing TJ heard was Brock shouting, “Don’t touch me, faggot!” as they herded him towards the emergency exit. The scuffle was music to his ears.

Turning his back on the sadist, TJ happily took the drink out of his boyfriend’s hand…

*

  


“Rogers looks like he’s gonna come over here and kill you,” Rollins mumbled with his mouth full.

TJ absolutely hated him.

Day in, day out, since Rollins’ best buddy had been expelled, TJ’d had to listen to him spouting off about Steve, bitching about Castle, laughing about Bucky dropping off the face of the Earth, and ‘filling him in’ on the badass things Brock had been up in the underworld. If only Rollins knew what Brock had been doing in his spare time. For example, calling TJ ‘Steve’ last night and punching him in the face so he could get off. The black eye was staring Rollins right in the face, not that he’d asked about it.

It was annoying as hell, but Rollins believing they were on decent terms was a necessary evil...for the time being.

“Yeah,” Ezra said in his nasally voice, sliding his sunglasses further down his nose. “Why do you think I’m sitting over here now? Steve’s lost his sense of fun…”

“His boyfriend’s probably dead,” Charlie interrupted before taking a big swig from his brother’s bottle of green tea. “Not wanting to party seems like a pretty normal reaction to me.”

“That’s true, but did you see how much he’s been lifting?” Harry snatched back his tea. “He benched two-hundred pounds yesterday. I wouldn’t call _that_ a normal reaction.”

Nodding, aimlessly shoving his salad around with his fork, pretending to give a shit, TJ was working all the angles; but in reality, he had his eye on Steve. TJ was a fan of the severely upgraded version of Steve Rogers, who was openly leering at him across the cafeteria. He seemed dangerous, unpredictable, like his overblown sense of justice had given way to wrath and anything khaki about Steve Rogers had been wiped clean. It leveled the playing field considerably.

Charlie leaned across the table and half whispered, “Did you know he’s here every day at five? When I came out of the locker room this morning, Fury was standing at the edge of the pool screaming at Steve to stop swimming laps, and it was like he didn’t even fucking hear him. Eventually, Fury made Lang jump in and block his lane.”

Harry laughed. “Man, I thought he was gonna shit in his trunks.”

“Yeah, Steve barreling down the lane, big as he’s gotten...” Charlie laughed too, and they sounded exactly the same. “Like a torpedo…”

“Would you two shut up?” Rollins snapped. “I was there. I don’t need a recap. And TJ _obviously_ doesn’t give a shit.”

Shrugging, TJ took another tiny bite of salad then scratched the crook of his elbow. He had a fucking abscess, and it was starting to throb. If he didn’t change the bandage soon, it was gonna leak through and ruin his new, pale blue cashmere sweater. He’d picked out more than a few at the store: light blue, dark blue, navy, and one with a hint of purple, because his _boyfriend_ liked him in blue.

“You just gonna let him stare?” Rollins scoffed, standing up a little and giving Steve the finger. “Even after he got your ass dragged to the police station?”

Yeah, Mommy and Daddy hadn’t been too happy about that one.

Making sure to turn his head all the way to the right, putting Yakov’s handiwork on display as he answered, he said, “I can’t do anything about what Rogers is thinking, and I don’t blame him for the thing with the cops. If I was in his shoes, I’d be grasping at straws too.” TJ ‘absently’ ran his hand over the huge hickey on his neck, the one he’d hidden from Mommy with a scarf but took great pleasure in showing off to Steve. “I just feel bad for the guy. It’s gotta be awful, not knowing.”

“Yeah, whatever. That fucking fairy…” Cutting himself off, Jack rolled his eyes at TJ. “I mean, I know you had a thing for Barnes once, or whatever…”

TJ chuckled, feeling more and more agitated with every word that came out of Rollins’ mouth. But planting seeds was important. “Everyone has an experimental phase. I’m over it. But you shouldn’t call him names. The guy could be dead. Have some respect.”

Rollins kept rambling, _endlessly,_ so TJ smoothed his hair back over his ear and tipped his head to see if Steve was still looking (he was), then scanned down to Frank. He was leaning back in his chair at the end of the table, chewing on a fucking toothpick, listening to Banner, and rolling his knuckles on the edge of the table. If there was one thing that really pissed TJ off, it was that Rogers had gotten Frank to turn on him. Frank’d had the potential to become one of his most important pieces, and Steve talking him into walking into a police station and saying not just TJ’s name, but _Brock’s?_ Damn.

TJ supposed he needed to throw some of the blame for that back on himself. That particular breadcrumb had really come back to bite him in the ass. After the cops had found the phone, Bucky’s face had been all over the news for days, meaning that even after the 24-hour news cycle had moved on, they couldn’t go out anymore. He and Yakov had been stuck in the café with a royally pissed off Brock for weeks, unable to do something as simple as watching regular TV in case Bucky’s face popped up again.

Dealing with Daddy and Mommy, having to be even _more_ careful about every fucking step, and Brock’s reinvigorated penchant for kicking the shit out of him...all of it was so goddamn annoying.

The first time he’d crossed paths with Brock after the phone, he’d punched TJ in the stomach so hard that he’d puked all over himself and the floor, then had stepped on TJ’s hand until he’d ‘admitted’ what he’d done: ‘I’m sorry, Brock. I was putting it back together, and a cocktail waitress opened the door to take a smoke break. She startled me, and I...I just dropped it. I’d already pulled the sim and battery...it was too far under the dumpster to reach.’ Brock had twisted the heel of his boot, and TJ’d endured the pain, knowing damn well that he could use that phone to drive another nail in Brock’s coffin if he needed to: ‘Officer, I threw Bucky’s phone when Brock wasn’t looking… So you could find us… I left you a trail.’

Touching the hickey one more time, he said, “I just hope they find out what happened,” before standing up to make a pass by the table. Yakov’s mark was too beautiful not to give Steve a closer look.

“I’m hangin’ with Brock tonight,” Rollins threw out, because he was the stupidest person to walk the Earth.

TJ picked up his tray and planted another seed. “You know I’m not a fan.”

“You’re a fan of his drugs,” Rollins threw back, right on cue.

TJ hadn’t needed Brock’s drugs since he’d liberated nine grand, but TJ still took them to make the idiot feel useful...to make the case against him stronger. There happened to be a crawl space under the stairs at the café that contained a bag of pill bottles covered in Brock’s fingerprints, a few illegally obtained narcotics strategically left in the bottom of each one. Another key component of TJ’s rainy day stash.

“Whatever, Jack.” TJ mumbled. “Brock gives me what I need, and I give _him_ what he needs.”

Ezra snorted, because he was the smartest person at the table.

“What the fuck does that mean?” Rollins snapped, because he _wasn’t._

TJ bit his bottom lip (exactly like Bucky), and casually said, “I think this black eye speaks for itself,” before walking towards Steve.

Rollins yelled something after him, but TJ was too busy smirking behind his hand to pay attention.

*

 

  
It was the first Monday in December, Brock was wherever, and TJ and Yakov were sitting on the couch in their underwear, watching old episodes of ‘The Twilight Zone’ without the sound. Duke Ellington’s delicate piano lines and Coleman Hawkins’ smooth tenor saxophone were providing the perfect soundtrack for a snowy afternoon. Tapping the melody of ‘Mood Indigo’s’ walking bass line on Yakov’s ankle, TJ dangled the needle out of his mouth like a late-night cigarette, and tried to get the vein to pop.

Ever since TJ had planted a few more tiny seeds in Rollins’ head, Brock had been coming around less and less. Internalized homophobia is a real bitch when your friends start asking too many questions. Plus, Brock was too busy getting off on Rollins’ updates about Steve to even _attempt_ getting his dick hard enough to fuck two people who’d stopped giving a shit about the sadistic crap he was trying to deal out. When he did show, he spent more time playing Call of Duty than venturing up to Yakov’s room with his ‘bag of toys’ or his ‘big gun’. Some days it felt like the café had become TJ and Yakov’s own honeymoon hideaway, especially since Bucky hadn’t been anyone but Yakov since that wonderful night at the club.

“You’re taking too long,” Yakov grumbled, the Russian tone flowing just below the saxophone. Pulling his foot out of TJ’s grasp, Yakov swiped the needle out of his mouth.

“But I was playing you a song.” TJ swayed the tiniest bit as he used both hands to play the chords in the air. “Like I said, on Valentine’s Day I’m gonna take you to this jazz club, Smalls, in the West Village, and show you what I can do.”

Pinching his eyebrows together, Yakov slid the needle into the long blue line on the underside of his forearm without tying off. His left arm was littered with bruises from his hand to his armpit, blue blobs melding with the thirty-four lines that had been carved all the way up to the top of his bicep. It was supposed to be thirty-seven, but Brock had been too busy shooting people online to carve up people in real life. It was getting to the point where TJ was gonna have to ‘remind’ him. TJ stared at Yakov’s arm as the dope hit him full force. The shoulder joint still didn’t move right, refusing to bend all the way over his head, which had added yet _another_ reason to the very long list of reasons that TJ was looking forward to the complete and utter destruction of Brock Rumlow. But Yakov never mentioned it. Never complained. Didn’t seem to care.

After a few minutes, Yakov held out his hand and said, “Give me yours. I’ll hit behind your knee.”

TJ smiled at that. When Yakov was high, he was nicer than anyone TJ’d ever been with. Actually, even when he wasn’t, he still won by a mile. Yeah, he wasn’t exactly buying TJ pink roses and chocolates hearts, but sometimes he’d hold TJ’s hip while they slept; and once, when he’d been about to nod off, Yakov’s accent had faltered as he’d mumbled, ‘You know, I was in love with you...before...I know I shoulda told you sooner...but I was worried you’d stop feedin’ me superman ice cream…’

He couldn’t remember eating ice cream with Bucky, but damn, that had been music to his ears. One step closer. He just needed a little more time...

TJ still had over two months before he turned eighteen. Brock, on the other hand, was the proud owner of an early birthday like Steve, and he’d conveniently reached the ‘punishable to the full extent of the law milestone’ back in October, a week before Stark’s party. If shit went wrong, poor, drug addicted, abused TJ would be charged as a minor; a trump card he’d been hiding up his sleeve since the very beginning. He just had to make everything happen before February, 13th, and after Yakov’s little slip about the ice cream, TJ was confident that he could pull all the strings with time to spare. If things went as planned, maybe TJ’d even get a bouquet of roses this year?

“Why are you so good to me?” TJ mumbled, rubbing his hand over his chin as he handed over the full needle. Three packs in one pop. Yakov was up to four.

Rotating TJ’s leg, Yakov didn’t even reach for the red belt. He just used his left hand to squeeze the back of TJ’s thigh, waited a beat, then hit the vein in one try. He always did. As the liquid jazz ran through his body, TJ let his head fall back against the armrest and mumbled, “I love you...” meaning the heroin, meaning the saxophone...meaning Yakov.

“I don’t know what love is,” came the quick reply, and TJ’s rush was stopped dead in its tracks by three words in his head...

You used to.

  


_...TJ’s mouth went dry the instant Steve Rogers walked proudly through the door at Homecoming with Bucky Barnes on his arm. Underneath the ivy and twinkle lights, TJ had never seen two people smiling so purely at one another. Both so brave, so strong, and so clearly in love…_

  


Yakov had closed his eyes again, and his blank expression was the opposite of twinkling lights.

TJ reached out to touch his hip and whispered, “Yakov?”

He groaned. “Why do you always talk when I’m rushing?”

“Can I suck you off?”

“No. I’m too high to come.” Yakov used both hands to push his hair over his face, completely covering his eyes, his nose...his mouth. “Stop talking.”

TJ’s mouth dropped open as his Valentine dreams crumbled, life handing him moments of clarity, even through the haze of heroin and jazz.

Moments like realizing that the person in front of him was capable of loving dope, but not TJ.

“Can I come lay next to you?” TJ blurted out.

Moments you realized that you’re truly a masochist...

Yalkov muttered something in Russian before snapping, “No, it’s hot.”

It was snowing outside; the December wind cold enough that frost had formed on the insides of the windows. But good dope did that to you...

“Please, Yakov?”

Moments you realized how desperate you really were...

Yakov cracked his eyes and scratched his stomach, then his chest, then his stomach again (good dope did that to you too). Blowing his hair out of his face, just enough for one pretty blue eye to peek out, Yakov looked into TJ’s eyes and said, “What’s your name again?”

Moments when you realized that the fifteen-year-old kid locked somewhere deep inside Bucky Barnes’ fucked-up brain was the _only_ person in the world who cared enough to know TJ’s real name, and the person TJ’d created didn’t give two shits…

*

  


TJ had been stuck at home since Friday night, because Daddy had received a wonderful phone call from Mrs. Hanson. Turns out, TJ’s new homework hook-up, Kyle, had been more interested in partying than maintaining a lucrative homework/drug exchange, and the first big paper TJ’d turned in had been nailed for plagiarism. Daddy had cracked down hard. Grounding him until he wrote a paper up to his standards, which was fucking impossible. He hadn’t written a paper himself since sometime last spring, when he’d been assigned an essay on Burroughs. Easy. But an informational paper about the clusterfuck known as the Obama/Trump transition? No fucking way! He’d been too high. Too tired. Nodding off. Out of practice. So he’d had to sit there, locked in a room without Christmas lights until Daddy had gone back to DC, and Mommy had let TJ off the hook like she always did.

Which meant Yakov had been with Brock or alone all weekend, and both of those things made TJ very nervous.

By the time he’d stopped after school at the Godiva store on West 50th, taking the most indirect route to score, shared a lovely dinner with Mommy and had slipped an extra Valium into her Sauvignon blanc so he could sleep at the café without blowing his alibi, and had played all sorts of cat and mouse games to make sure he wasn’t being followed, his watch said seven-thirty. _And_ he was cold. It pissed him off.

Everything had been getting harder. Frank was still digging around like a fucking mole, asking Rumlow’s crowd questions that were getting too close for comfort. Stark had been shooting him enough dirty looks that TJ’s paranoia about every ATM, convenience store, and traffic light he passed had doubled. He was expecting a drone to drop out of the fucking sky at any second. Not to mention, last week he’d found an arrow sticking out of his front tire. Natasha had started walking by him at school, subtly bumping his shoulder, letting him know she was there. And Steve? Well, he was changing in ways that had absolutely nothing to do with the muscles stretching his shirts to capacity. It was in his eyes. He’d stormed right past ‘intriguing adversary’ to ‘very real, very angry, and highly unpredictable threat’. And, if all that wasn’t bad enough, Brock’d had to haul TJ to some basement doctor to drain the abscess on his arm, and now he had an even bigger one on his shin.

It was all a pain in his ass, and the only thing he wanted to do was see Yakov; even though he’d pretty much stopped speaking English and had no idea who TJ was half the time.

Valentine’s Day felt like it was breathing down TJ’s neck, and he had to fucking fix this... _now._

Slipping in the back door of the café, TJ brushed the snow out of his hair and yelled, “Hey, Yakov. I brought you a present.”

There was no response, which wasn’t unusual, but the smashed TV and the front door being wide open sure as hell was! Brock was gonna kill him! Or TJ was gonna kill Brock. If the cops showed up now, they were _both_ going to prison, because TJ could play victim all he wanted, but without getting rid of the sheets, planting all the evidence, and wiping down the prints, he’d look just as guilty! Pre-meditation guaranteed that they’d charge him as an adult!

Dropping the chocolate, TJ ran towards the front door, stumbled out onto the porch, and skidded into a set of footprints in the fresh snow...the size of Yakov’s bare feet, surrounded by drops of blood.

He ran without thinking, following the trail for two blocks, careening around the corner where the footprints overlapped and the blood drops made a perfect circle. It looked like Yakov had stopped, spinning slowly to look in every direction, deciding where to go. Someone had to have seen him! The cops were gonna drive up on him at any second, and TJ was gonna take the fucking fall! Quickly scanning, he caught sight of a few footprints where they melded with a set of tire tracks leading into an alley, then spotted a few drops of red further down. The adrenaline was hitting him so hard that he couldn’t feel his fingers, because he didn’t fucking see him! Running, slipping, looking for footprints in the dark, for blood...for Yakov…

Suddenly, the soles of his oxfords slid out from under him, and he landed hard on his leg, screaming because he’d fucking hit the abscess...screaming because he’d lost the trail...screaming because he’d bought Yakov chocolate...screaming because he was alone.

“The guy on the news…”

TJ flipped over in the slush, his heart in his throat. The voice had come from behind him, and he stumbled to his feet, searching for the source. There were only recycling bins, piles of snow. There’d been no accent, but it hadn’t sounded like Bucky either...not like _any_ version of Bucky. It had sounded like complete and utter confusion...sadness layered with loss.

“Who was he?”

TJ jumped, because he was right fucking next to him, slumped on the ground behind one of the blue bins, and partially hidden by a pile of ice and garbage. And what TJ saw was horrifying.

Yakov was shirtless, barefoot, his hair tangled and hanging over his face, wearing nothing except the black jeans TJ’d bought for him. They were low enough on his hips that most of his ass was in the dirty snow, his shrinking hips not coming close to holding them up anymore. Blood was starting to scab around the pieces of shattered television sticking out of his knuckles, and he had a dark purple bruise extending across both eyes, his nose was swollen, and there was a deep ligature mark around his neck…

TJ had to get him out of here, back to the house, clean up the snow. Jesus fucking Christ!  

“Yakov, what are you talking about? Why are you…”

“There was a picture of someone who looked like me…” he interrupted, his head ticking hard to the left. “...smiling on the beach with a blond…”

Big blue eyes looked up at him; and with that little motion, TJ knew that he was truly and royally fucked.

TJ knew the picture. It had been the wallpaper on Bucky’s phone, and he fucking hated it. Even through the cracks in the screen, he could tell that they’d been at the beach: Bucky’s face squished up against Steve’s, both of them smiling like the happiest idiots in the world. But TJ’d known what to look for, and he’d easily spotted Brock’s fading handprint on Bucky’s sun-kissed cheek.

The day after Homecoming, _TJ’d_ been holed up in his house, scared shitless that he’d ratted out Brock, and regretting that he’d gotten Frank involved more and more with each passing second, while _Bucky and Steve_ had been taking lovey-dovey selfies on Coney Island.

Dragging both hands up and down his face, TJ hissed, “Goddammit,” into his palms.

There wasn’t a single photograph of TJ and Bucky together. _Not one._

He had to get it together. Now. Nodding a bunch of times, shaking out his hands, psyching himself up, reformulating...making changes on the fly. He was good at this...the _best_ at this…but when he looked at Yakov again, he saw it, and everything on the chess board changed.

In the meat of his shoulder, overlaying newly carved lines keeping count of all forty-four days, was a crudely and brutally carved star.

“What did Brock do?” He gasped, stepping closer, reacting without thinking. Fuck, he could see the inside of Bucky’s muscle...

The lines had always bothered TJ, sure, but they’d served a greater purpose. Brock needed to feel like he was in control, and if scratching stripes into Bucky’s arm, like a hunter carving his number of kills into a rock, made that happen...then whatever. Each line was another piece of evidence that would put Brock behind bars for the rest of his life. But this? Making a mockery of the patch on the jacket TJ’d bought for Blue? Marking up Bucky’s body and digging a star into him like a fucking brand!? It was too far...

“Bucky…” TJ knelt down in the snow, just like he had at Homecoming after he’d thrown Bucky into Brock’s path the first time. “I asked you a question. What the hell did Brock do!?”

Bucky’s eyes flicked towards him, his mouth working...confusion all over his face. When he said, “Who was he?” he looked like a battered child.

A different kind of panic started building, because Yakov hadn’t mentioned Steve since their very first day together. But this wasn’t Yakov...and it wasn’t Red either. Blue wasn’t here doing the moonwalk, asking to hold TJ’s hand. The Starboy wasn’t sticking his hand down TJ’s pants to make everything but sex go away. It wasn’t The Lunatic, screaming about blueberries and gearing up to bash TJ’s head in, or Scotty, who’d erased Steve altogether. For fuck’s sake, it wasn’t even the Bucky who’d remembered pieces of what TJ had done, but had felt so fucking guilty that he’d willingly held out his arm. This was someone entirely new: a conglomeration of the past and present, wormholes making circles and loops until they’d all intersected in the middle.

TJ was so close to winning, and, dammit, he’d bought chocolate! There was no way in hell that he was gonna let Brock Rumlow ruin everything now. No fucking way! Trying not to look at the star, TJ attempted to pull Yakov back. “You met him at the beach at the end of summer, before we got together. You said he was just some tourist.”

Rolling his eyes to the right, whoever was doing the talking said, “I knew him.”

It felt like Steve Rogers had just punched TJ in the gut without being anywhere near him.

“Yakov, c’mon.” He went ahead and put his knees into the bloody snow. “You’re the most important person in my life, and I love you. Okay, _sweetheart?_ I just need you to come back to the house with me. It’ll be the last time, I promise.”

TJ tilted his head to try to get Yakov to look at him, realizing that he’d meant what he’d just said. He _would_ pull the plug early because... Jesus, he didn’t even know why.

“I shouldn’t have left you alone with Brock. I know, I’m sorry. But I can get us out of this. I’ll do what I have to do at the house, then I’ll fix everything tomorrow. I promise. But, Yakov, if I don’t get you out of this alley right now, I can’t do that, and they’ll tear us apart.”

 

        _...Don’t go falling in love with that freak like a pathetic dog, TJ. You aren’t built for it..._

 

When the boy in front of him blinked his eyes, furrowed his brow, and whispered, “But I _knew_ him,” TJ understood how truly pathetic he’d become.

*

  
He’d had to wait it out. No words were gonna get that guy to move before he was fucking ready to move. TJ’d named him Winter, because they’d sat in that dark alley for twenty more minutes, the snow getting heavier by the second while Winter had turned more and more blue. TJ was pretty sure he’d gotten fucking frostbite. Eventually, Blue had shown up (inspired by the color of his skin, perhaps?), and TJ’d managed to coax him back to the bedroom with the promise of hot chocolate. Sadly, instead of marshmallows, Blue had gotten hit in the back of the head with a frying pan and had four packs of dope shot into his veins to make him forget...to bring Yakov back... _something._

Then TJ had gone to work. He’d spent half-an-hour shoveling bloody snow into a garbage can, his leg fucking _pounding_ with every goddamn step. And TJ’d tried to sound convincing as he’d repeated, ‘No worries, I just had a bloody nose. Have a nice evening,’ to everyone who’d walked past. It had been a pain in his ass, and he’d been expecting the blue and red sirens to light up the block the entire fucking time.

The truth was, TJ wasn’t ready to deal with this right now. It was almost one o’clock in the morning; he was tired, stressed, angry at himself (fucking chocolate!? Really?), _furious_ at Brock, and now he was starting to get sick. But he couldn’t get high until he’d checked off all the boxes, and, unfortunately, there were a lot of them. He’d planted the sim card and the battery under the couch cushions. Cracked open the little door under the stairs where he’d hidden the pill bottles. Moved the bucket, sponges, and towels to the back of the cabinet under the kitchen sink. Left the garbage can of bloody snow by the back door (he’d worn gloves, so he didn’t have to worry about prints). Checked the forecast on his burner phone: the storm was gonna keep getting worse overnight, dropping 5-8 inches, so anything TJ’d missed would be covered by morning. Check, check, check, and check.

Then he’d put on the jumpsuit, gloves, hat, and the mask he’d bought to take care of everything that needed cleaning in the bedroom. Rolling Bucky to one side, he’d pulled off the sheets and the plastic mattress protector that were covered with TJ’s _everything,_ then had rolled him the other way while he’d shoved them into a garbage bag. It had been harder to get the sheets that he’d saved from the first week back on (the ones that only had traces of Brock), because Bucky’d kept flopping around. Incriminating sheets: Check.

Cleaning the room had been the easiest part. TJ wasn’t gonna tell the cops that he hadn’t been here, that would be idiotic. He just had to sell the idea that Brock hadn’t let him upstairs for a few months. He’d been careful not to touch anything that hadn’t been on the bed. When they’d fucked, TJ’d always come into his hand or the sheets (never on the wall or the floor). The bathroom had been completely off limits. He’d never touched the door handles. The speakers had been taken out last week. The list of precautions went on and on. After wiping down a few key things, TJ’d shoved the cleaning gear into another garbage bag and had thrown everything in the hall before turning back to take one last look.

Part of him had wanted to run to Bucky and crawl into bed next to him, kiss the back of his head, put on Miles Davis’ ‘Blue in Green’, and tell him how much he loved him no matter what. But, sadly, Winter had taught him something during their short time together in the snow covered alley: Nobody would ever love TJ as much as Bucky Barnes loved Steve Rogers. _Nobody._

Wiping at his eyes with the back of his hand, TJ sat down at the bottom of the stairs to wait for Brock. The star could be a real fucking problem, and TJ had to find out if there were any loose ends he’d have to deal with from that bullshit before he could do anything else. He’d texted Brock with a very clear ‘911’, and there was no good reason why Brock shouldn’t have already come through the tunnel five fucking minutes ago. But apparently, Brock was all about fucking with TJ’s time schedule today.

God, he didn’t want to think anymore. He wanted to shut it all down. Put it on pause. Come back fresh in the morning. But he couldn’t. Leaning his head against the bannister, TJ tried to focus on the melody of Miles Davis’ trumpet...the smoothness of the notes, the pattern of feathered brushes dancing across the snare drum...but his mind wouldn’t stop.

He’d walked the garbage bags to the end of the back alley. Stashed them under a kiddie pool. The snow would take care of the footprints. He’d come back for them later. Check.

If Bucky learned to love jazz, maybe he’d even sing along as TJ played sometime...

Brock’s bloody, come covered bomber jacket was still shoved into the hole TJ’d made in the box spring, the red feather tucked carefully inside the pocket. Check.

He choked a little, thinking about the red feather he’d gently placed in the very corner of the wine cellar...wondering why the hell nobody had found it yet…  

Dammit.

He had to get his fucking head on straight. Go over his lines. Play his part. Make sure every piece landed in the right square. Chewing the inside of his cheek, he ran over his motivation: Don’t you know, it’s a well known fact that drug-addicts (especially ones hooked on hard drugs like cocaine and heroin) will do _absolutely_ _anything_ for a fix; including letting the violent son of one of New York City’s most notorious mobsters fuck him in the ass for two years. And, break out the Kleenex, TJ had been so messed up on smack lately, really hitting rock bottom, that it only made sense that he wouldn’t have asked a frightening person like Brock Rumlow why he’d taken to only abusing TJ on the first floor. A junkie like TJ wouldn’t have noticed anything out of the ordinary…wouldn’t have put two and two together...until the morning he’d heard someone scream upstairs.

Dropping his head into his hands, TJ ground his teeth together hard enough to hurt. He just wanted to go home, get high, sleep in his own bed...but he _had_ to talk to Brock, _had_ to get that prick to shoot a fresh load of come into his ass somehow, _had_ to push him to get violent. Three more fucking boxes to check. _Then_ could TJ do a fuck-ton of dope and pass out on the couch...wake up tomorrow…‘hear’ the scream...make it believable...make the call…

All of the sudden, there was noise on the front porch, and TJ leapt to his feet. It had to be the fucking cops! Without thinking, he ran _up_ the stairs instead of _down_ to the goddamn basement to get to the tunnel...fuck!

The sound of wood splintering, the front door getting kicked in, shouting…

TJ took two steps at a time…

“I hear footsteps! Over here!”

Something got knocked over. Another voice yelled, “Cover the back door.”

He charged towards Bucky’s room. The only way he was gonna get out of this was to fucking jump in that goddamn bed and play victim…but they’d already heard him...it wasn’t gonna work!

Heavy boots on the stairs, running up after him…

“Steve! Wait!”

TJ had already launched himself towards Bucky when he’d heard the name. And he’d yanked his shirt over his head so his track marks would show before it had really registered…and when it did...when that wonderful name echoed into their bedroom...he couldn’t help but smile.

Boots at the end of the hall, a second set coming up behind. “I said fucking wait!” A voice TJ recognized. Frank Castle...the one and only.

There was just enough time for TJ to curl up next to him and bury his face in Bucky’s Valentine hair; formulating, calculating, and reconfiguring his next move as Steve Rogers’ hulking silhouette filled the doorway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If u know/suspect someone in ur life is using drugs; say something, tell their parents, partner, a teacher...anyone. If ur struggling, ask 4 help. It's possible 2 make it out, but u can’t do it alone.
> 
> Trivia:play & I’ll send virtual carbs!  
> 1\. What am I referencing at the end of this sentence? “...and the innocence of first crushes and first kisses had lasted longer than seven short minutes in Heaven.” 
> 
> 2\. Throw me at 21 in a blender with 10 of my favorite characters, and out pops TJ. Having him play piano is a nod to 2 characters in particular. Any idea who?
> 
> 3\. When ‘Bucky’ says, “Oh, that’s easy peasy lemon squeezy. I’m all in for the regal Scottish Fold ‘cause their ears look like pizza slices,” what am I referencing?
> 
> PLAYLIST 1: [TJ's Soundtrack](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Q50HZDu5Ck8&list=PLbGnycMfOsiA7xV4ksp9v2G-8wT0Emu0G)  
> Since TJ’s a musician with an affinity for jazz, I chose his internal soundtrack carefully. Many songs r orchestral versions of ‘Steve/Bucky songs’ from earlier chapters; like TJ's tainting something pure. Playing the jazz songs will give you a different vibe re: TJ’s mind. 
> 
> 1\. Vitamin String Quartet (VSQ)-"Something I Can Never Have" (opening-Roof)  
> 2\. Gary Jules-"Mad World" (‘first date’-Roof)  
> 3\. VSQ-"Love Hurts" (TJ hates Red-Roof)  
> 4\. Miles Davis-"Blue in Green" (Blue spins TJ-roof)  
> 5\. VSQ-"Three Days" (Roof)  
> 6\. VSQ- "Maybe I'm Amazed" (TJ meets The Starboy)  
> 7\. VSQ- "Sober" (opening-bedroom scene with Brock)  
> 8\. VSQ-"The Fragile" (bedroom w/Brock)  
> 9\. Thelonious Monk-“Round Midnight” (flashback-‘cat socks’)  
> 10\. Ramin Djawadi- "Codex" (Brock gives TJ dope)  
> 11\. VSQ-"The Only Exception" (TJ’s 1st time using)  
> 12\. VSQ-"Teardrop" (opening-party)  
> 13\. VSQ-"The Dope Show" (maze)  
> 14\. Robert Johnson-"Cross Road Blues" (Steve leaves Bucky in tent)  
> 15\. VSQ-"Bittersweet Symphony" (TJ makes his move)  
> 16\. VSQ-"A Beautiful Lie" (Brock changes plan)  
> 17\. Prince-"Mary Don't you Weep" (cued-TJ's room)  
> 18\. Thelonious Monk-“Round Midnight” (cued-café)  
> 19\. VSQ-"The Red" (Bucky/TJ’s bag of tricks-café)  
> 20\. Led Zeppelin-"Traveling Riverside Blues (cued-TJ on coke)  
> 21\. VSQ- "Summertime Rolls" (Yakov wants 2 go out)  
> 22\. Etta James-"A Sunday Kind of Love" (club)  
> 23\. VSQ-"Can't Change Me" (lunchroom)  
> 24\. Duke Ellington/Coleman Hawkins-"Mood Indigo" (cued-Yakov/TJ couch)  
> 25\. VSQ-"Decode" (opening-TJ grounded)  
> 26\. VSQ-"The Ghost of You" (finding ‘Bucky’ in alley)  
> 27\. VSQ-"The Tourist" (the star)  
> 28\. VSQ-"The Kill" (Winter)  
> 29\. Miles Davis-"Blue in Green" (cued-TJ on stairs)  
> 30\. West Dylan Thordson-"Kevin Wendell Crumb" (Noise on porch)  
> 31\. VSQ-"Where is my mind?" (exit music)
> 
> PLAYLIST 2: [Writer’s Soundtrack](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=G1ZC7l2OkEA&list=PLbGnycMfOsiD-Wr1miQaAtiDHcZyP2Vyk)  
> These are the songs that helped me develop TJ’s character.  
> 1\. Yellawolf-"The Devil in my Veins" (Roof)  
> 2\. Black Rebel Motorcycle Club (BRMC)-"Fault Line" (‘first date’-Roof)  
> 3\. The Von Bondies-"Pawn Shop Heart" (TJ hates Red-Roof)  
> 4\. Ryan Adams-"I See Monsters" (Blue spins TJ-Roof)  
> 5\. BRMC-"As Sure as the Sun" (Roof)  
> 6\. The Velvet Underground-"Venus in Furs" (TJ meets The Starboy)  
> 7\. BRMC-"The Line" (opening/bedroom w/Brock)  
> 8\. Spiritualized-"Come Together" (bedroom w/Brock)  
> 9\. Thelonious Monk-“Round Midnight” (flashback/‘cat socks’)  
> 10\. Ryan Adams-"My Blue Manhattan" (Brock gives TJ dope)  
> 11\. Spiritualized-"Broken Heart" (TJ’s 1st time using)  
> 12\. Massive Attack-"Teardrop" (opening-party)  
> 13\. G Tom Mac-"Cry Little Sister" (maze)  
> 14\. Royal Blood-"Blood Hands" (Steve leaves Bucky in tent)  
> 15\. The Raconteurs-"The Switch and the Spur" (TJ makes his move)  
> 16\. Muse-"Hate This and I'll Love You" (Brock changes plan)  
> 17\. Prince-"Mary Don't you Weep" (cued-TJ's room)  
> 18\. Thelonious Monk-“Round Midnight” (cued-café)  
> 19\. Muse-"Sing for Absolution" (Bucky/TJ’s bag of tricks-café)  
> 20\. Led Zeppelin-"Traveling Riverside Blues- (cued-TJ on coke)  
> 21\. VSQ-"Summertime Rolls" (Yakov wants 2 go out)  
> 22\. Mickey Avalon-"Funeral" (club)  
> 23\. Jack White-"Connected by Love" (lunchroom)  
> 24\. Duke Ellington/Coleman Hawkins-"Mood Indigo" (cued-Yakov-TJ couch)  
> 25\. Mark Lanegan-"Where Did You Sleep Last Night?" (opening-TJ grounded)  
> 26\. Massive Attack-"Inertia Creeps" (finding ‘Bucky’ in alley)  
> 27\. Ryan Adams-"Hotel Chelsea Nights" (the star)  
> 28\. The Verve-"Gravity Grave" (Winter)  
> 29\. Miles Davis-"Blue in Green" (cued-TJ on stairs)  
> 30\. Elliott Smith-"I Didn’t Understand" (noise on porch)  
> 31\. The Pixies-"Where is my mind?" (exit music)

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! There will be a drawing for each chapter, and I'll release both at the same time. Updated regularly (I promise) You can find my Stucky & Marvel Art on Instagram at [JessieLucidArt](https://instagram.com/jessielucidart) and Tumblr at [lucidnancyboy](http://lucidnancyboy.tumblr.com/)


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